The Queen's Head nb-1

by Edward Marston

  'Speak to me,' she whispered.

  'What shall I say?'

  'Do you agree with me? About Will Fowler?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'And what about Nicholas Bracewell?'

  'Perhaps not.'

  'Oh, Nick!' she sighed, as she tightened her grip on him. 'I love this closeness but there are times when I wonder who the man I am holding really is.'

  'I wonder that myself,' he confessed.

  He kissed her softly on the lips and began to stroke her dark, lustrous hair. Nestling into his chest, she felt at once soothed and aroused. It was several minutes before she broke the silence.

  'What are you thinking?' she said.

  'It doesn't matter, Anne.' There was a shrug in his voice.

  'Please. Tell me.'

  'It was not very cheering.'

  'I still want to know.'

  "Very well,' he explained. 'I was thinking about failure.'

  'Failure?'

  'High hopes that end in chaos. Noble ambitions that crumble.'

  'Is that what happened to your hopes and ambitions?'

  'You keep on trying,' he said with a little laugh, then he became more serious. 'No, I was thinking about Susan Fowler, poor creature. Her plans have fallen apart. Then there is Samuel Ruff.

  Failure brought him low as well. Even now there is still a deep sadness in the man that I cannot fathom.'

  There was a long pause. Her voice was a murmur in the pillow.

  'Nick...'

  'I know what you're going to say.'

  'You might go back to your own room tomorrow.'

  'I will, Anne.'

  But she was his for some luscious hours yet. His need made him tighten his grip on her and it did not slacken until he at last fell asleep from a lapping fatigue.

  *

  Richard Honeydew was overwhelmed at the news that he was to be cast in the title role of the new play. Performing for the first time at The Curtain would have been thrill enough for him, bur to make his debut there as Gloriana, Queen of England, filled him with a blend of excitement and terror. They evidently had great faith in him and that thought helped to steady his nerves and still his self-doubts.

  The other apprentices were outraged and Firethorn had to slap down their complaints ruthlessly. Martin Yeo was wounded the most. A tall, slim, assured boy of fourteen, he had played most or the leading female roles for the company over the past couple of years, and he had come to look upon them as his by right. To be deprived of an outstanding part by a novice was more than his pride could take, and he withdrew into a sullen, watchful silence. John Tallis and Stephen Judd did the same. It they had disliked Richard before, they now hated him with vengeful intensity. Every morning, as they sat around the table with him for breakfast, they glared their anger at Richard and were only restrained from attacking him by the vigilance of Margery Firethorn. As a punishment for the way they had tied their victim up, she had put the three of them on reduced rations, so that they had half-empty bellies while the youngest of their number ate from a full plate. In every way, Richard Honeydew was getting more than them.

  'I could have killed him!' asserted John Tallis.

  'Yes,' added Stephen Judd. 'The worst thing is the way he tries to be friendly with us--as if we could ever be friends with him now!'

  'It's not fair,' said Martin Yeo simply.

  They had gone back up to their room and they fell easily into a conspiratorial chat. The three boys often had differences among themselves but they had now been united against a common enemy Tallis was livid, Judd was aching with envy, and Yeo took it as a personal insult. They came together in a solid lump of resentment.

  Some companies actually paid their apprentices a wage, but Lord Westfield's Men did not. In return for their commitment to the company, the boys were given board, lodging, clothing and regular training in all the arts of the playhouse. The arrangement had been satisfactory until Richard Honeydew had appeared. He had unwittingly upset the balance of power within the Firethorn household, and within the company, and he had to pay for it.

  'What are we going to do about it?' asked Tallis.

  'There's nothing much we can do,' admitted Judd. 'He's got Samuel Ruff and Nick Bracewell on his side now.'

  'He'll need more than them,' warned Yeo.

  'You should have that part, Martin,' said Tallis.

  'I know--and I will.'

  'How?' asked Judd eagerly.

  'We'll have to work that out.'

  'Can we get rid of him altogether?' urged Tallis.

  'Why not?' said Yeo.

  The conspirators shared a cosy snigger. Richard Honeydew was riding high at the moment but they would bring him down with a bump when he least expected it. All that they had to do was to devise a plan.

  *

  Back in his own room, Nicholas Bracewell reached under the bed and pulled out a large battered leather chest. As well as being the book holder he was, literally, the book keeper. It was his function to keep the books of all the plays that the company used, new, old or renovated. The play chest was an invaluable item that had to be kept safe at all times. With so much piracy of plays going on, it behoved very company to guard its property with the utmost care.

  Nicholas unlocked the chest with a key then lifted up the lid to reveal a confused welter of parchment and scrolls. The history of his involvement with Lord Westfield's Men was all there, written out in various hands then annotated by himself. As he ran his eye over the ealiz prompt copies, a hundred memories came surging back at him from his past. He quickly reached for the manuscripts that lay on the very top of the pile then closed the lid firmly. When the chest had been locked, he pushed it back to its home beneath the bed.

  After taking his leave of Anne, he walked across to the nearby wharf to be ferried by boat across the river. The Thames was thronged with craft of all sizes and they zigzagged their way across the busiest and oldest thoroughfare in London. Nicholas loved the exuberance of it all, the hectic bustle, the flapping sails, the surging colour, the distinctive tang and the continuous din that was punctuated by cries of 'Westward Ho!' and 'Eastward Ho!' from vociferous boatmen advertising their routes.

  He had seen many astonishing sights in his travels but he could still be impressed anew by the single bridge that spanned the Thames. Supported by twenty arches, it was a miniature city in itself, a glorious jumble of timber-framed buildings that jutted out perilously over the river below. A huge water wheel of Dutch construction stood beneath the first arch, harnessing the fierce current that raced through the narrow opening and pumping water to nearby dwellings.

  On the Bridge itself, it was Nonesuch House that dominated, a vast, ornate and highly expensive wooden building which had been shipped from Holland and reassembled on its stone foundations. A more grisly feature could be seen above the gatehouse tower where the heads of executed traitors were displayed on poles. Nicholas counted almost twenty of them, rotting in the morning sun as scavenger kites wheeled down to peck hungrily at the mouldering flesh. London Bridge was truly one of the sights of Europe but it embodied warning as well as wonder.

  When he alighted on the other bank, Nicholas paid and tipped his boatman then made his way to the teeming Gracechurch Street.

  Roger Bartholomew was waiting for him outside The Queen's Head in a state of high anxiety.

  'I got your message, Nicholas.'

  'Good.'

  'Did he read my play?'

  'Yes, Master Bartholomew. So did I.'

  'Well?' The poet was on tenterhooks.

  'It's a fine piece,' praised Nicholas, trying to find something positive to say that would cushion the disappointment. 'It has memorable speeches and stirring moments. The account of the battle itself is very striking.'

  'Thank you. But what of Lawrence Firethorn.'

  Everything hung on the decision. For Roger Bartholomew, it was a last hope of a career as a playwright. Acceptance would nourish him and rejection would destroy. Nicholas hated to be t
he one to deal the blow. What he could do was to conceal the virulence of Firethorn's attack on the play.

  'I believe that he...saw its promise as well.'

  'And the leading role?' pressed Bartholomew. 'Did it captivate him as I foretold?'

  'To a degree, sir. He recognized the extent of your talent.'

  'Then he wishes to present it?' asked the poet with a wild laugh. 'Lord Westfield's Men will offer me another contract?'

  'Unhappily, no.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because it docs not fit in with our plans, sir.'

  Roger Bartholomew was stunned. An Enemy Routed had become his obsession and he thought of nothing but the day when it would first be staged. He had put his whole being into the play. If his work was rejected then he himself was being cast aside as well-

  'Are you sure that he read it?' he demanded.

  'I can vouch for it.'

  'Make him reconsider.'

  'He will not, sir.'

  'But he must!'

  'There's no point, Master Bartholomew.'

  'There's every point!' howled the other. 'He does not ealize what is at stake here. My play is a work of art. It's his sacred duty to bring it before the public.'

  Nicholas reached into the leather bag he was carrying. Taking out one of the manuscripts that lay inside, he held it out to the scholar.

  'I'm sorry,' he said firmly. 'Thank you for offering it to us but I've been told to return it herewith.'

  'Let me see Master Firethorn.'

  'That would not be wise.'

  'Is the man hiding from me?'

  'Indeed not, sir.'

  'Then I'll hear this from his own lips.'

  'I strongly advise against it.'

  'You'll not get in my way this time,' insisted Bartholomew. 'Make an appointment for me. I mean to have this out with him in person and nothing will stop me.'

  Nicholas felt that the truth would halt him. His attempt to protect the other from it had failed. It was time for plain speaking.

  'Master Firethorn does not like the play at all, sir.'

  'That cannot be!' protested the author.

  'His comments were not kind.'

  'I won't believe this, Nicholas!'

  'He could only bring himself to read a few scenes and he found them without interest. He was especially critical of your rhyming. You may talk with him if you wish, but he will only tell you the same thing in much rounder terms.'

  Roger Bartholomew was dazed. Rejection was torment enough but an outright condemnation of him and his work was far worse. His face was ashen and his lip was trembling. He snatched his play back then turned all the venom he could muster upon Nicholas.

  'You lied to me, sir!'

  'I thought to spare you some pain.'

  'You led me astray.'

  'There was never a chance of your play being accepted.'

  'Not while I have friends like you to thank!'

  'We already have a drama about the Armada,' said Nicholas, indicating his leather bag. 'I did warn you of that.'

  'You will all suffer for this,' threatened Bartholomew, lashing out blindly with words. 'I'll not be treated this way by anybody, no, not by you, nor Master Firethorn, nor anyone in your vile profession. I want satisfaction for this and, by heaven, sir, I mean to get it!'

  Vibrating with fury, he clutched his play to his chest then pushed past Nicholas to rush off at speed. The book holder watched him go then looked down at the leather bag that contained a copy of Gloriana Triumphant. Two plays on the same subject had brought different rewards to their authors. Once again, he was profoundly grateful that he was not a playwright in such a treacherous world as that of the theatre.

  *

  Barnaby Gill had been unhappy at first about the decision to promote Richard Honeydew to the title role of the new play. He had a high opinion of Martin Yeo's talent and felt that the older boy would bring more regal authority to the part of Gloriana. At the same time, he was ready to recognize the claims of Stephen Judd, who had improved his technique markedly in recent months and who had been an undoubted success in Love and Fortune as a wanton young wife. The lantern jaw of John Tallis put him out of the reckoning but the other two were powerful contenders.

  Apprenticeship was bound by no formal rules and practises varied with each company, but Barnaby Gill accepted the general principle of seniority. On that count alone, Richard Honeydew had to be excluded. The other three boys had earned the right to be considered before him, and Gill put this point forcefully at a meeting with his colleagues.

  Lawrence Firethorn spiked his guns. Edmund Hoode and the other sharers had already been talked around by the wily Firethorn so the decision stood. All that Gill could do was to register his protest and predict that they would rue their mistake. Richard Honeydew was over-parted.

  'Well done, Dick.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'You have natural grace.'

  'I simply wish to please, sir.'

  'Oh, you do that, boy,' said Gill. 'You may prove me wrong yet.'

  The more he watched Richard, the more he came to see his unusual gifts as a performer. His voice was clear, his deportment good and his use of gesture effective. With a dancer's eye, Gill admired his sense of balance, his timing and the easy fluency of his movement. Most important of all, the boy had now learned to wear female apparel as if he were himself female and this was a special accomplishment. Richard Honeydew might turn out to be the best choice as Gloriana, after all, and Gill did not in the least mind admitting it.

  Lord Westfield's Men had rented a large room at The Queen's Head for early rehearsals. Barnaby Gill contrived a word alone with the boy during a break for refreshment.

  'How are you enjoying it, Dick?'

  'Very much, sir.'

  'Have you ever played a queen before?' .

  'Never, Master Gill. It's a great honour.'

  'Who knows?' he teased softly. 'You may even outshine our own Gloriana.'

  'Oh, no,' replied the boy seriously. 'Nobody could do that, sir. I think that our Queen is the most wonderful person in the world.'

  Gill saw a chance to impress the boy and he took it.

  'Yes,' he said casually. 'Her Majesty has been gracious to admire my playing on more than one occasion.'

  Richard gaped. 'You've met her?'

  'I've performed at court a number of times.'

  There had, in fact, been only two appearances at the royal palace and they had been some years ago, but Gill disguised all this. He also concealed his true feelings about Queen Elizabeth. Most women filled him with mild distaste but the royal personage had done rather more than that.

  Richard Honeydew might worship her along with the rest of her subjects but the fastidious, observant actor had got close enough to her to see her as no more than a middle-aged woman with a ginger wig, black teeth and a habit of using thick raddle on any part of her skin that could not be covered by clothing. Queen Elizabeth was a walking wardrobe. Beneath the flamboyant attire was a mass of wires, stays and struts, which supported the stiff exterior. Gill acknowledged that she had given a striking performance but the ravaged beauty had not won his heart.

  'Will the company play at court again?' asked Richard.

  'We hope so. It wants but an invitation.'

  'It must be inspiring to play before Her Majesty.'

  'Oh, it is. I was transported, Dick.'

  'Did you dance your jig, Master Gill?'

  'Twice. The Queen insisted that I repeat it.' He took a step closer to the boy. 'I would teach you the steps one day if we could find time together.'

  'I would appreciate that, sir.'

  'Swordplay, too,' continued Gill. 'I was instructed by a Master of Fence. I know far more about it than Nicholas Bracewell. You would do well to seek my help with a sword in future.'

  'Nicholas has taught me so much, though.'

  'I will teach you a lot more, Dick. Would you like that?'

  The boy hesitated. The avuncular smile w
as worrying him again. Besides, his first loyalty was to Nicholas. He tried to speak but the actor stopped him with a raised palm.

  'Come to me this evening,' he wooed. 'We'll have a bout then.'

  'That will not be possible, Master Gill,' said a voice.

  'Who asked you, sir?' rejoined the actor.

  'Dick will be with me this evening. I am to instruct him in the use of the rapier.'

  Richard was surprised to hear this but grateful for the interruption. Samuel Ruff had come to his aid once again. The boy's relief was not shared by Barnaby Gill.

  'Why must you meddle, sir?' he snapped.

  'The boy and I have an arrangement.'

  'Is this true, Dick?'

  'Yes, I think so...'

  'Well, I do not think so.' He rounded on the hired man. 'And I do not believe that you have ever carried a rapier.'

  'You do me wrong, Master Gill.'

  'Ah!' mocked the other. 'Have you been hiding your light under a bushel all this time? Are you a Master of Fence?'

  'No, sir. But I have borne a sword.'

  'Let us see how much you remember.'

  Ruffs intercession had annoyed Gill intensely and he wanted to teach the man a lesson. There would be the additional bond? of being able to show off in front of Richard. Crossing to a table, Gill snatched up two rehearsal foils and offered one of the bell-like handles to Ruff.

  'Not a rapier, sir, but it will serve.'

  'I do not wish to have a bout with you, Master Gill.'

  'Are you afeard, then?'

  'No, sir. But it would not be wise.'

  'Who asks for wisdom out of swordplay?'

  'Somebody might get hurt,' explained Ruff. 'Even with a button on, a foil can cause injury.'

  'Oh, I forgot,' teased Gill. 'You have wounds enough already.'

  'My arm is mended, sir. That is not the reason.'

  'Then what is?'

  'Common sense.'

  'Common sense or cowardice?'

  Samuel Ruff was stung by the gibe. He had no wish to fence with Gill but the insult could not be ignored. Slipping off his jerkin, he handed it to Richard and accepted the foil from his adversary. The latter gave him an oily grin. He was going to enjoy humiliating this troublesome hired man and would not even bother to remove his doublet to do so.