The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Welcome to the day, Master Bracewell!’

  ‘The same to you, Christopher.’

  ‘Let us hope it bears sweeter fruit than yesterday.’

  ‘I am sure it must.’

  ‘Where do we stop today?’

  ‘At Royston. God willing.’

  ‘Royston …’

  The name triggered off a thought. Two long days of walking on foot had taken none of the swagger out of Christopher Millfield. He looked neat and trim in his doublet and hose. Nicholas, wearing an old shirt and a buff jerkin, felt dishevelled by comparison. He had never really taken to the young actor and put it down to the latter’s forced affability.

  Christopher Millfield produced his annoying grin.

  ‘May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?’

  ‘Please do, sir.’

  ‘If we should fail to find an audience in Royston, as we did in Ware, there may yet be employment for us.’

  ‘From what source?’

  ‘Pomeroy Manor.’

  ‘You know the place?’

  ‘Only by repute,’ said Millfield airily. ‘It lies on the estates of one Neville Pomeroy, a man of true breeding and culture, not unfriendly to the theatre and like to give us a kinder word than the folk at Ware.’

  Nicholas nodded his thanks. The name of Pomeroy was vaguely familiar to him. He had heard it mentioned by Lord Westfield, and in terms of praise, which was unusual for their patron. A local landowner with a liking for entertainment might be able to fill his largest room with some spectators for them.

  ‘Where is the house?’ he said.

  ‘Towards Meldreth. Not far out of our way.’

  ‘In which direction?’

  ‘Cambridge.’

  It was worth considering. If Banbury’s Men were intent on queering their pitch, then Royston might well be closed to their art. Giles Randolph would not have ruined their chances at Pomeroy Manor. He might yet be thwarted.

  Christopher Millfield stood with arms akimbo.

  ‘Why do you not like me, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Have I said as much?’

  ‘I read it in your manner.’

  ‘You are deceived. I like you well enough.’

  ‘But not as much as Gabriel Hawkes.’

  ‘I gave the matter no thought.’

  ‘That is not what Master Gill believes. He tells me that you urged the name of Gabriel over mine.’

  ‘I will not deny it.’

  ‘May I know your reason?’

  ‘I took him to be the finer actor.’

  Millfield winced. ‘You are mistaken there, sir.’

  ‘I can only give you my true opinion.’

  ‘It may be changed ere long,’ said the other with a flash of pride. ‘But was that the only cause of your preference for Gabriel? That you rated him more highly?’

  ‘No, Christopher.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I found him more honest company.’

  Nicholas gave a straightforward answer that was not to Millfield’s taste at all. After shooting a hostile glare at the book holder, he invented a nonchalant smile.

  ‘It is of no moment,’ he said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Gabriel is gone to Heaven. I am here in his place.’

  ‘Can you spare the dead no respect?’

  ‘He was my rival. I do not mourn him.’

  ‘Even though he was murdered?’

  Christopher Millfield was taken aback for a second but he retrieved his composure very quickly. Unable to determine if the man’s reaction arose from guilt or surprise, Nicholas tried to probe.

  ‘Did his death not strike you as sudden?’

  ‘He was afflicted by the plague.’

  ‘It does not usually kill its victims so fast.’

  ‘I have seen men snuffed out in a single day.’

  ‘The old or the weak,’ said Nicholas. ‘The young and the fit are able to put up some sort of struggle.’

  ‘What are you saying, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Until the day when fever broke out, Gabriel was a healthy young man in the prime of life. He should have not have been carried off so speedily.’

  ‘Your conclusion?’

  ‘Someone helped him on his way.’

  ‘You have proof of this?’

  ‘I have a strong feeling.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Millfield with a smirk. ‘You will need more than that to make your case. Besides, what does it matter now? Gabriel was marked for death. If someone did kill him, then he rendered the man a service by sparing him the agonies of a lingering end.’

  ‘You take this too lightly, Christopher.’

  ‘It is idle contemplation.’

  ‘When a good man is murdered?’

  ‘By whom?’ challenged the other.

  ‘Someone who stood to gain from his early demise.’

  Millfield met his searching gaze without a tremor.

  Royston was no more than a glorified village with a bevy of thatched cottages huddled around the church like anxious children clutching at their mother’s skirts. Westfield’s Men had once more come too late. Their rivals had performed in the yard of the Barley Mow to an audience drawn from all the villages in the area. What enraged Lawrence Firethorn to bursting point was the fact that Banbury’s Men had again filched a play from his own repertoire, The Two Maids of Milchester, another rustic comedy that was suitable for the lower sort. They were poisoning the very water from which Westfield’s Men drank.

  After abusing everyone in sight in the roundest terms, the actor-manager withdrew his company to a field nearby to consider their next move. Nicholas Bracewell put forward the idea mooted by Christopher Millfield and it found ready acceptance. Rather than struggle on to the next possible playing location, they elected to look for somewhere nearer. Pomeroy Manor sounded an interesting possibility and Firethorn warmed to the notion.

  ‘Master Pomeroy is not unknown to me,’ he said with casual arrogance. ‘Lord Westfield presented him after one of my performances at the Rose. He knows my worth.’

  ‘As who does not?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Ware does not! Royston – be damned – does not!’

  ‘To their eternal shame, master.’

  ‘I would not play before these dolts if they offered me a king’s ransom. Palates that have been jaded by a taste of Giles Randolph would choke on the rich food of my talent. There is a world elsewhere!’

  ‘Shall I ride on to Pomeroy Manor?’

  ‘With all haste, Nick,’ said Firethorn, scenting the chance of a performance at last. ‘Take Master Millfield with you. He knows the way and will ease your solitude.’

  Nicholas could have wished for another companion but he had no choice in the matter. Edmund Hoode was quick to offer the loan of his horse to the book holder and – what was more astonishing – Barnaby Gill handed over the bay mare to Millfield with something approaching willingness. It was a gesture that Nicholas was to remember later.

  The two riders set off on their expedition. Though Millfield had never been to the house before, he seemed to have a mental map as to its whereabouts. Four miles of cantering along rutted tracks brought them to the crest of a hill which presented them with a perfect view of Pomeroy Manor and they reined in their mounts to enjoy the prospect. It was truly impressive.

  The property was built on the site of an ancient moated manor house which had belonged to the Church. On the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII, it had been acquired by the Pomeroy family who rebuilt it in Tudor bricks, with eight octagonal chimneys having star tops, rising from crow-stepped gable-ends. The windows were low-mullioned and transomed, formed from moulded bricks that were rendered in a smooth grey clay that had been dredged from a river estuary. A porch added to the overall symmetry and acted as a trellis for an explosion of roses. Ivy had got a finger-hold on the front walls.

  ‘It is just as I imagined,’ said Millfield.

  ‘A rare sight in this c
ounty,’ observed Nicholas.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Brick-built houses of this type are only found in East Anglia as a rule. Does Master Neville Pomeroy have connections with that part of the country?’

  ‘So I am led to believe.’

  ‘Where did you glean all your information?’

  ‘From listening in the right places.’

  Millfield chuckled and urged his horse on.

  After the disappointments in Ware and Royston, they gained adequate recompense. Hearing of their arrival, the master of the house had them brought into the room where he had been going through his accounts with his steward.

  Neville Pomeroy was a stout, solid man of middle years with curling grey hair and slow movements. He gave them a cordial welcome, heard their business then nodded with enthusiasm. They were in luck.

  ‘You come at a timely hour, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am only returned from London myself today and thought to have missed you as you passed through Royston.’

  ‘You knew of our presence here?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘From Lord Westfield himself. We have mutual friends in the city. I have seen his company tread the boards and warrant they have no equal. Master Firethorn will honour me if he plays inside my house.’

  ‘Then we may draw up a contract?’

  ‘Indeed so, Master Bracewell. I will need a day to send out word and gather in an audience but, if you can bide your time, then I can offer you warm applause on the morrow. How large is the company?’

  ‘But fifteen souls, sir.’

  ‘Then must you lodge at the inn nearby. The Pomeroy Arms will give you free board at my request. It is but a small place, I fear, but it should serve your purpose.’

  ‘We thank you heartily, sir.’

  ‘The gratitude is all mine. I love the theatre.’

  ‘What would you have us play?’

  ‘Tarquin of Rome.’

  It was an unexpected choice but Nicholas did not question it. The play was a tragedy on the theme of tyranny and betrayal. It was strange fare for a hot summer evening in the privacy of one’s house yet it revealed a serious student of the drama. Tarquin of Rome was an exceptional piece of writing. It furnished its title-role with speeches that could ring the withers and fire the soul. Pomeroy had chosen shrewdly.

  Nicholas and Millfield rode back to their fellows. Their news was passed around with glee. Firethorn made decisions at once. Tarquin of Rome was not a play they had planned on staging during the tour, and they had brought neither the costumes nor properties for it, but the actor-manager was in no way discomfited.

  ‘They shall have it, Nick.’

  ‘So I told Master Pomeroy.’

  ‘We have a day to prepare. It is sufficient. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll be Tarquin to the life!’

  He launched into the speech at the culmination of the death scene and the verse came out in a torrent. Lawrence Firethorn had the prodigious memory of a real actor who never forgets lines once learned. He carried some fifty parts in his head, each one a leading role of great complexity, yet he could produce them on demand. Swept away on a tide of emotion, he declaimed some more of Tarquin’s soliloquies and filled the air with wonder.

  Nicholas Bracewell became pensive then he clicked his fingers and nodded to himself. Edmund Hoode was close enough to mark his behaviour.

  ‘Why do you nod so, Nick?’

  ‘I think I have their secret, Edmund.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Banbury’s Men.’

  ‘Scurvy knaves! They have stolen our plays.’

  ‘I believe I know how.’

  Grantham gave them an ovation that lasted for some minutes and Giles Randolph luxuriated in it. There was a sizeable audience, culled both from the town and from the surrounding area of Lincolnshire, and they had never witnessed anything like Pompey the Great. Having come to watch the sort of pastoral romp that touring companies usually brought to them, the spectators were at first a trifle uneasy when they were confronted with a tale of military splendour and political intrigue, but they soon rallied as the drama unfolded with compelling skill. It was one of Edmund Hoode’s most stirring achievements and Banbury’s Men played it for all it was worth.

  Giles Randolph gave them an intelligent and moving account of the central role but he did not have Lawrence Firethorn’s martial presence or swelling power. The defects in his performance, however, were happily concealed from both himself and his audience. He was convinced that he had touched heights far beyond the reach of his hated rival, and that he had demonstrated his superiority in the most signal and humiliating way. Rippling applause fed his narcissism. In the theatre of his mind, he had left Firethorn dead and buried.

  Celebrations were in order. Pompey the Great dined in style at a local inn with his company fawning avidly around him. After years in the shadow of Westfield’s Men, it was heartening to sweep them aside and step out into the full glare of the sun.

  Seated beside Giles Randolph was a thoughtful young man with an expression of quiet self-congratulation. The leading actor sought even more applause.

  ‘Was I not inspired upon that stage, sir?’

  ‘You were the very ghost of Pompey.’

  ‘Did I not catch his greatness?’

  ‘In every line and gesture, Master Randolph.’

  ‘The audience loved me.’

  ‘How could they not?’

  ‘I walked in Elysium!’

  Mark Scruton gave a smile of agreement. His whole future was vested in the success of Banbury’s Men and he yielded to nobody in his appreciation of the talent of its star. All that Giles Randolph lacked was material of the highest calibre. In most of the plays from his own repertoire, he was never less than hypnotic but never more than brilliant. He was held back by the limitations of the work in which he appeared. Given a drama of true merit, handed a part into which he could pour himself body and soul, he could indeed approach magnificence.

  Giles Randolph was not unaware of this himself.

  ‘It is a well-wrought piece,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘Master Hoode is a fine poet.’

  ‘That final speech would wring tears from a stone.’

  ‘He has no equal in such scenes.’

  ‘You speak true, sir,’ said Randolph. ‘Away with the scribbling of apprentice playwrights! Give me men who can write a rolling line. We have good plays but none to live with the magic of this Pompey. The confession is painful to me, but I would dearly love this Master Hoode to pen his work for Banbury’s Men.’

  ‘He does, master. He does.’

  Giles Randolph laughed in keen appreciation.

  ‘When he reaches Grantham, he’ll be most perplexed.’

  ‘And cry out like the victim of a robbery.’

  ‘With Master Firethorn howling “Murder!” in his wake.’ He became businesslike. ‘We must keep a distance ahead of them. It will not serve if Westfield’s Men overtake us. We’ll come to blows in that event.’

  ‘I have a device to slow them down completely.’

  ‘Tell me what it is, Master Scruton.’

  ‘Lend me an ear.’

  Giles Randolph leaned close so that he could catch the other’s whisper. A smirk lit up his dark features. He liked the notion so much that he slipped his companion a few coins by way of gratitude. It was but small payment to a man who was proving such a friend to Banbury’s Men. Mark Scruton was their saviour.

  Night wrapped its black cloak around the Pomeroy Arms. Secure in the knowledge that an audience awaited them on the morrow, Westfield’s Men rehearsed until evening then roistered until midnight. They fell into their beds and were soon asleep, dreaming sweetly in their contentment. Nicholas Bracewell shared a room with four others at the rear of the premises. Fond thoughts of Anne Hendrik flitted their way through his slumber and he might have enjoyed them all night had not something disturbed him. He was awake at once and looking around with bleary eyes. There was nothing to be seen
in the darkness but he heard the others snoring in peaceful fellowship beside him. He listened carefully then realised what was wrong. Someone was missing.

  The distant clack of shoes on paved stone made him slip out of bed and cross to the window. He could just make out the tall figure of a man who was loping away from the inn. Nicholas shook his head to bring himself fully awake then strained his eyes against the gloom. The man reached higher ground and was silhouetted for a few seconds against the sky. It was enough. The book holder recognised him by his profile and his gait.

  Christopher Millfield ran off into the night.

  Westfield’s Men improvised with characteristic skill on their journey to Ancient Rome. Sheets became togas, long daggers became short swords, bushes were pillaged for laurel wreaths and a high-backed chair was borrowed from the inn itself to do duty as a throne. Under the guidance of the book holder, actors turned carpenters to build a few simple scenic devices. Edmund Hoode’s woodwork was directed at the play itself and he laboured hard with his chisel, saw and plane. Tarquin of Rome was a long drama with a large cast. Had they been performing it in a town the size of Bristol or Newcastle or Exeter, they could easily have recruited journeymen to make up the numbers but that option was denied to them here. The play had to be trimmed to fit their modest company, though, even in its attenuated version, it was still a powerful drama. Only a full-blooded performance and frantic doubling could bring it off. It was the kind of challenge that they liked.

  Lawrence Firethorn gave them heart and hope.

  ‘Let’s make the old house ring with exultation!’

  Pomeroy Manor became a magnet for the local gentry. They came in droves to see the unlikely sight of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, seventh and last king of Rome, in the banqueting hall of a house in Hertfordshire. It was a revelation to them. On their makeshift stage, and with minimal scenery and costumes, Westfield’s Men transported their spectators back some two thousand years or more.