The Queen's Head nb-1

by Edward Marston

  'I'll settle for next Sunday,' said Firethorn with a ripe chuckle. 'Call upon your Muse, Edmund. Apply yourself

  The three men were sitting downstairs in Firethorn's house in Shoreditch. Barnaby Gill was smoking his pipe, Edmund Hoode was drinking a cup of water and the host himself was reclining in his favourite high-backed oak chair. A meeting had been called to discuss future plans for Lord Westfield's Men. All three of them were sharers, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the major roles in any performance.

  There were four other sharers but Lawrence Firethorn had found it expedient to limit decisions about the repertory to a triumvirate. Barnaby Gill had to be included. He was a short, stocky, pleasantly ugly man of forty with an insatiable appetite for foul-smelling tobacco and sweet-smelling boys. Morose and temperamental offstage, he was a gifted comedian once he stepped on to it and his facial expressions could reduce any audience to laughter. It was for his benefit that the comic jig had been inserted into the play about Richard the Lionheart.

  Professional jealousy made the relationship between Gill and Firethorn a very uneasy one with regular threats to walk out being made by the former. However, the two men knew that they would never part. The dynamic between them onstage was a vital ingredient in the success of the company. For this reason, Firethorn was ready to make allowances for his colleague's outbursts and to overlook his indiscretions.

  'I do not like the idea,' affirmed Gill.

  'Then you've not fully understood it,' rejoined Firethorn. 'What is there to understand, Lawrence? England defeats the Armada. You seek a play to celebrate it--and every other company in London will be doing the same thing.'

  'That is why we must be first, Barnaby.'

  'I'm against it.'

  'You always are.'

  'Unfair, sir!'

  'True, nonetheless.'

  'Why must we ape everyone else?' demanded Gill, bristling. 'We should try to do something different.'

  'My performance as Drake will be unique.'

  'Yes, there you have it.'

  'What?'

  'I see no part in this new play for me.'

  Edmund Hoode listened to the argument with the philosophical half-smile of someone who has heard it all before. As resident poet with the company, he was often caught between the rival claims of the two men. Each wished to outshine the other and Hoode usually ended up pleasing neither.

  He was a tall, slim man in his early thirties with a round, clean-shaven face that still retained a vestige of youthful innocence. His curly brown hair and pale skin gave him an almost cherubic look. Hoode excelled in writing poems to the latest love in his life. What he found himself doing was producing hasty, if workmanlike, plays at a late that moved him closer to nervous collapse each time. The one consolation was that he was always able to give himself a telling cameo role with romantic interest.

  How soon will you have something to show us, Edmund.'

  'Christmas.'

  'I'm serious about this.'

  'So am I, Lawrence.' We ask you as a special favour,' purred Firethorn.

  'You expect too much of me.' Only because you always deliver it, dear fellow.' He's wooing you,' warned Gill cynically.

  'It will not serve,' said Hoode.

  I have your title,' explained Firethorn. 'It will leap off the playbills along with your name. Gloriana Triumphant

  'An ill-favoured thing, to be sure,' noted Gill, wincing. 'Be quiet, sir!'

  'I'm entitled to my opinion, Lawrence.'

  'You're being peevish.'

  'I simply wish to choose another play.'

  'Yes,' agreed Hoode. 'Another play by another author.'

  Lawrence Firethorn regarded them through narrowed eyes. He had anticipated opposition and he had the means to remove it at a stroke. His chuckle alerted them to the danger.

  'The decision has already been taken, gentlemen.'

  'By you?' challenged Gill.

  'By Lord Westfield.'

  There was nothing more to be said. The company owed its existence to its patron. Under the notorious Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds, the acting profession had been effectively outlawed. The only dramatic companies that were permitted were those which were authorized by one noble and two judicial dignitaries of the realm. All other players were deemed to be rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars, making them liable to arrest. Lord Westfield had saved Firethorn and his fellows from that indignity. The patron's word therefore carried enormous weight.

  'Start work immediately, Edmund,' ordered his host.

  'Very well,' sighed Hoode. 'Draw up the contract.'

  'I have already done so.'

  'You take too much upon yourself,' accused Gill.

  'Someone has to, Barnaby.'

  'We are sharers, too. We have rights.'

  'So does Lord Westfield.'

  Barnaby Gill summoned up his fiercest grimace. Not for the first time, he had been outwitted by Firethorn and it stoked his resentment even more. Edmund Hoode turned wearily to his new task.

  'I must talk with Nicholas.'

  'Do, do,' encouraged Firethorn. 'Use his knowledge of seamanship. Nicholas could be of great help to us here.'

  'We lean on him too much,' said Gill irritably. 'Master Bracewell is only a hired man. We should treat him as such and not deal with him as an equal.'

  'Our book holder has rare talents,' countered Firethorn. 'Accept that and be truly grateful.' He turned to Hoode. 'Make full use of Nicholas.'

  'I always do,' answered the other. 'I often think that Nicholas Bracewell is the most important person in the company.'

  Firethorn and Gill snorted in unison. Truth is no respector of inordinate pride.

  *

  London by night was the same seething, stinking, clamorous place that it was by day. As the two men made their way down Gracechurch Street, there was pulsing life and pounding noise all around them. They were so accustomed to the turmoil of their city that they did not give it a second thought. Ignoring the constant brush of shoulders against their own, they inhaled the reek of fresh manure without complaint and somehow made their voices heard above the babble.

  'Demand a higher wage from them, Nick.'

  'It would never be granted.'

  'But you deserve it, you bawcock.'

  'Few men are used according to their deserts, Will.'

  'Aye!' said his companion with feeling. 'Look at this damnable profession of ours. We are foully treated most of the time. They mock us, fear us, revile us, hound us, even imprison us, and when we actually please them with a play for two hours of their whoreson lives, they reward us with a few claps and a few coins before they start to rail at us again. How do we bear such a life?'

  'On compulsion.'

  'Compulsion?'

  'It answers a need within us.'

  'A fair fat wench can do that, Nick.'

  'I talk of deeper needs, Will. Think on it.'

  Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler were close friends as well as colleagues. The book holder had great respect and affection for the actor even though the latter caused him many problems. Will Fowler was a burly, boisterous character of medium height whose many sterling qualities were betrayed by a short temper and a readiness to trade blows. Nicholas loved him for his ebullience, his wicked sense of humour and his generosity. Because he admired Fowler so much as an actor, he defended him and helped him time and again. It was Nicholas who kept Fowler in a job and it strengthened their bond.

  'Without you, Westfield's Men would crumble into dust!'

  'I doubt that, Will,' said Nicholas easily.

  'We all depend upon you entirely.'

  'More fool me, for bearing such an unfair load!'

  'Seek more money. A labourer is worthy of his hire.'

  'I am happy enough with my wage.'

  'You are too modest, Nick!' chided the other.

  'The same could not be said about you, I fear.'

  Will Fowler broke into such
irrepressible laughter that he scattered passers-by all round him. Slapping his friend between the shoulder blades, he turned a beaming visage upon him.

  'I have tried to hide my light under a bushel,' he explained, 'but I have never been able to find a bushel big enough.'

  'You're a born actor, Will. You seek an audience.'

  'Applause is my meat and drink. I would starve to death if I was just another Nicholas Bracewell who looks for the shadows. An audience has to know that I am a good actor and so I tell them as loud and as often as I can. Why conceal my excellence?'

  'Why indeed?'

  Nicholas collected a second slap on the back.

  They were crossing the bridge now and had to slow down as traffic thickened at its narrowest point. The massive huddle of houses and shops that made up London Bridge extended itself along the most important street in the city. The buildings stretched out over the river then lurched back in upon each other, closing the thoroughfare down to a width of barely twelve feet. A heavy cart trundled through the press. Nicholas reached forward to lift a young boy out of its path and earned a pale smile by way of thanks.

  'You see?' continued Fowler. 'You cannot stop helping others.'

  'The lad would have been hit by that wheel,' said Nicholas seriously. 'Too many people are crushed to death in the traffic here. I'm glad to be able to save one victim.'

  'One victim? You save dozens every day'

  'Do I?'

  'Yes!' urged Fowler. 'And they are not just careless lads on London Bridge. How many times have you plucked our apprentices from beneath the wheels of that sodden-headed, sheep-faced sharer called Barnaby Gill? That standing yard between his little legs will do far more damage than a heavy cart. You've saved Dick

  Honeydew and the others from being run down. You've saved Westfield's Men no end of times. Most of all, you save me.'

  'From Master Gill?' teased Nicholas.

  'What!' roared Fowler with jovial rage. 'Just let the fellow thrust his weapon at me. I'll saw it off like a log, so I will, and use it as a club to beat his scurvy head. I'd make him dance a jig, I warrant you!'

  'Even I could not save you then, Will.'

  They left the bridge, entered Southwark and swung right into Bankside. The Thames was a huge, rippling presence beside them. Nicholas had been invited to a tavern by Fowler in order to meet an old friend of the latter. From the way that his companion had been flattering him, Nicholas knew that he wanted a favour and it was not difficult to guess what that favour was.

  'What is your friend's name, Will?'

  'Samuel Ruff. As stout a fellow as you could find.'

  'How long is it since you last saw him?'

  'Too long. The years drift by so fast these days.' He gave a sigh. 'But they have been kinder to me than to Sam.'

  'Does he know that I'm coming?' asked Nicholas.

  'Not yet.'

  'I've no wish to intrude upon an old friendship.'

  'It's no intrusion. You're here to help Sam.'

  'How?'

  'You'll find a way, Nick. You always do.'

  They strode on vigorously through the scuffling dark.

  *

  Even though it lay fairly close to his lodging, the Hope and Anchor was not one of Nicholas's regular haunts. There was something irremediably squalid about the place and its murky interior housed rogues, pimps, punks, thieves, pickpockets, gamblers, cheaters and all manner of masterless men. Ill-lit by a few stinking tallow candles, the tavern ran to rough wooden benches and tables, a settle and a cluster of low stools. Loamed walls were streaked with grime and the rushes on the stone-flagged floor were old and noisome. A dog snuffled for rats in one corner.

  The Hope and Anchor was full and the noise deafening. An old sailor was trying to sing a sea shanty above the din. A card game broke up in a fierce argument. Two drunken watermen thumped on their table for service. Prostitutes laughed shrilly as they blandished their customers. A fog of tobacco and dark purpose filled the whole tavern.

  Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler sat side by side on the settle and tried to carry on a conversation with Samuel Ruff, who was perched on a stool on the other side of the table. All three drank bottle-ale. It had a brackish taste.

  Nicholas glanced around the place with candid surprise.

  'You lodge here, Samuel?' he said.

  'For my sins.'

  'Can it be safe?'

  'I sleep with one hand on my dagger.'

  'And the other on your codpiece,' said Fowler with a grin. 'These drabs will give you the pox as soon as they breathe on you, then charge you for the privilege.'

  'I've no money to waste on pleasure, Will,' added Ruff.

  'What pleasure is there in a burning pizzle?' Fowler's grin became rueful. 'There be three things an actor fears--plague, Puritans and pox. I never know which is worse.'

  'I can tell you.'

  'Which one, Sam?'

  'The fourth thing,' explained Ruff.

  'And what is that?'

  'The greatest fear of all. Being without employ.'

  There was such sadness in his voice and such despair in his eyes that the garrulous Fowler was silenced for once. Nicholas had an upsurge of sympathy for Samuel Ruff. He knew what it was to fall on hard times himself and he had a special concern for those who fell by the wayside of a necessarily cruel profession. Ruff was not only evidently in need of work. He had to be helped to believe in himself again. Nicholas showed a genuine interest.

  'How long have you been a player, Samuel?'

  'For more years than I care to remember,' admitted Ruff with a half-smile. 'I began with Leicester's Men, then I toured with smaller companies.'

  'At home or abroad?'

  'Both, sir.'

  'Where have you been on your travels?'

  'My calling has taken me to Germany, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, even Poland. I've been hissed at in many languages.'

  'And applauded in many more,' insisted Fowler loyally. 'Sam is a fine actor, Nick. Indeed, he is almost as good as myself.'

  'No recommendation could be higher,' said Nicholas, smiling.

  'We are old fellows, are we not, Sam?'

  'We are, Will.'

  'If memory serves me aright, we first played together in The Three Sisters of Mantua at Bristol. They were happy days.'

  'Not for everyone,' recalled Ruff.

  'How say you?'

  'Have you forgotten, Will? You fetched the trumpeter such a box on the ear that he could not play his instrument properly for a week.'

  'The knave deserved it!'

  'If he'd not ducked in time, you'd have boxed his other ear and taken his breath away for a fortnight.'

  'What was the man's offence?' wondered Nicholas.

  'He blew a scurvy trumpet,' explained Will.

  Fowler and Ruff shook with mirth at the shared recollection. As further memoirs were revealed by the former, the other seemed to relax and blossom, secure in the knowledge that there had been a time when his talent had been in demand. Samuel Ruff was older and greyer than Fowler but his build was similar. Nicholas noted the faded attire and the neglected air. He also studied the big, open face with its honest eyes and resolute jaw. There was an integrity about Ruff which had not been beaten out of him by his straitened circumstances, and his pride was intact as well. When Fowler offered him money, he was frankly wounded.

  'Take it back, Will. I can pay my way.'

  'I mean it as a loan and not as charity.'

  'Either would be an insult to me.'

  Fowler slipped the coins quickly back into his purse and revived some more memories of their time together. The laughter soon started again but it lacked its earlier warmth. Nicholas had taken a liking to Samuel Ruff but he could not see how he could help him in the immediate future. The number of hired men in the company was kept to a minimum by Firethorn in order to hold down costs. There was no call for a new player at the moment.

  In any case, Ruff did not appear to be in search of a job.
Months without work had taken their toll of his spirit and he was now talking of leaving the profession altogether. Will Fowler gasped with shock as he heard the news.

  'What will you do, Sam?'

  'Go back home to Norwich.'

  'Norwich?'

  'My brother has a small farm there. I can work for him.'

  'Sam Ruff on a farm!' exclaimed Fowler with healthy disgust. 'Those hands were not made to feed pigs.'

  'He keeps cows.'

  'You're an actor. You belong on the stage.'

  'The playhouse will manage very well without me.'

  'This is treasonable talk, Sam!' urged Fowler. 'Actors never give up. They go on acting to the bitter end. Heavens, man, you're one of us!

  'Not any more, Will.'

  'You will miss the playhouse mightily,' said Nicholas.

  'Miss it?' echoed Fowler. 'It will be like having a limb hacked off. Two limbs. Yes, and two of something else as well, Sam. Will you surrender your manhood so easily? How can anyone exist without the theatre?'

  'Cows have their own consolation,' suggested Ruff.

  'Leave off this arrant nonsense about a farm!' ordered his friend with a peremptory wave of his arm. 'You'll not desert us. D'you know what Nick and I talked about as we walked here tonight? We spoke about the acting profession. All its pain and setback and stabbing horror. Why do we put up with it?'

  'Why, indeed?' said Ruff gloomily.

  'Nick had the answer. On compulsion. It answers a need in us, Sam, and I've just realized what that need is.'

  'Have you?'

  'Danger.'

  'Danger?'

  'You've felt it every bit as much as I have, Sam,' said Fowler with eyes aglow. 'The danger of testing yourself in front or a live audience, of risking their displeasure, of taking chances, of being out there with nothing but a gaudy costume and a few lines of verse to hold them. That's why I do it, Sam, to have that feeling dread coursing through my veins, to know that excitement, to face that danger! It makes it all worthwhile.'

  'Only if you are employed, Will,' observed Ruff.

  'Where will you get your danger, Sam?'

  'A tow can give a man a nasty kick at times.'

  'I'll give you a nasty kick if your persist like this!'

  'My mind is made up, Will.'