Chapter Nine
Rejection had wrought deep changes in Master Roger Bartholomew. He felt defiled. When he saw his play about Richard the Lionheart performed at The Queen's Head, he thought that he had finished with the theatre for ever but his Muse had other ideas. Directed back to the playhouse, he had now suffered such comprehensive rejection that it turned his brain. He discovered a vengeful streak in himself that he had never even suspected before. They had hurt him: he wanted to strike back.
Lord Westfield's Men became the target for his obsessive hatred. Other companies had turned him down but Lawrence Firethorn had done far worse than that. He had ruined one play by the young poet then reviled another. To make matters worse, he was playing the leading role in a new drama on exactly the same subject as An Enemy Routed. In his feverish state, Bartholomew wondered if his play had been plundered to fill out the other. It would not be the first time that an author's work had been pillaged.
As he stood outside The Curtain, he could hear the voices booming away inside during the rehearsal. He could not make out the words or identify the speakers, but he knew one thing. Gloriana Triumphant had dispossessed him. He reached out to snatch another playbill from its post. If talent and justice meant anything in the theatre, it was his play that should be advertised all over London, and his words that should now be ringing out behind the high walls of the playhouse.
Bartholomew stood above all things for the primacy of the word, for the natural ascendancy of the poet. Firethorn and his company worked to other rules. They promoted the actor as the central figure in the theatre. A play to them was just a fine garment that they could wear once or twice for effect before discarding. An Enemy Routed had been discarded before it was even worn. No consideration at all had been shown for its author's feelings.
Lord Westfield's Men deserved to be punished for their arrogance. He elected himself to administer that punishment. All that he had to decide was its exact nature.
*
Adversity was a rope that bound them more tightly together. In the face of their setbacks, Westfield's Men responded with speedy resolution. The injured apprentice was taken home and his deputy, Martin Yeo, started to rehearse at once. Even as he was working out on stage, the tiremen were altering Gloriana's costume to fit him and redressing the red wig that he was to wear. Yeo had already learned the role in readiness and so the eleventh hour substitution was less of a problem than it might have been, but there were still movements to master, entrances and exits to memorize, due note to be taken of the performances of those around the Queen so that he could play off them.
Nicholas Bracewell, meanwhile, had taken steps to stabilize the mast and sail. When it was set up now, a series of ropes led down from its top to different parts of the stage and tied off on hooks or cleats. The mast was so solid that it was possible for someone to climb it. Ever the opportunist, Firethorn cast the smallest of the journeymen as a ship boy and told him to shin up the mast. It would be a good effect in performance.
A bewildering variety of chores kept George Dart on the move throughout the play. At Nicholas's suggestion, he was given another job as well. Because they could not guarantee that a wind would blow the next afternoon, Dart was handed a long piece of rope that was attached to the heart of the sail. Concealed on the balcony above the stage, he was to tug violently on cue to give the impression that the ship was being blown along by a gale. It was the first time in his young career that he had ever taken on the role of the west wind.
Even Barnaby Gill pitched in to help with the emergency. He suspended his ultimatum about Samuel Ruff until after the performance, and did what he could to keep up everyone's spirits. Against all the odds, the play began to come together. Frantic rewriting by Edmund Hoode eliminated the part that Martin Yeo had played before and smoothed out one or two other lumps. Morale was high at the end of an interminable rehearsal.
'Well, Nick. What do you think?'
'I think we'll get through.'
'We'll do more than that, dear heart. Dicky may have gone but there are still many other sublime performances. I wager that we'll hold them in the palm of our hands.'
'It never does to tempt fate,' warned Nicholas.
They were standing together on the now almost empty stage at The Curtain, reviewing the day and its vicissitudes. Firethorn suddenly declaimed his first speech, aiming it at the galleries and raking up various positions to do so. Nicholas soon realized what he was doing. The actor was trying to work out precisely where Lady Rosamund Varley would be sitting.
'We'll show 'em, Nick.'
'Who, master?'
'Giles Randolph and his ilk.'
'Ah.'
'You saw the fellow here last. How did he fare?'
'Indifferently. It was a poor play.'
'A poor play with a poor player. I will act him off the stage, sir!'
'You are without compare,' said Nicholas tactfully.
'Tomorrow is an important day for us,' continued the other. 'We must prove ourselves once and for all. Our dear patron will rely on us to increase his lustre. We must use this new play to stake our claim to the highest honour--an invitation to play at court.'
'It's long overdue.'
Firethorn made a deep bow to acknowledge nonexistent applause that reverberated in his ears. He was already at court, performing before the Queen and her entourage, receiving royal favour, achieving yet another success in the auditorium of his mind. Nicholas saw that his ambition had another side to it than mere glory. Performance at court would be in front of a small, exclusive, private audience that would include Lady Rosamund Varley. She ruled on the throne of his heart at the moment.
'I would be in Elysium,' confided Firethorn.
'It will come.'
'Let us ensure it, Nick.'
When everything had been cleared away and locked up ready for the morrow, they all departed. There was sadness for Richard Honeydew that he had been robbed of his first taste of stardom but the performance had to continue and everyone had bent themselves to that end. Company rivalry was paramount. Banbury's Men had done themselves less than credit at The Curtain. Lawrence Firethorn and his fellows could dazzle by comparison.
*
It was a long, lonely walk back to Bishopsgate and Nicholas still had more than a mile to go when he entered the City. But he was too preoccupied to notice the extent of his journey or the stiff breeze that swept through the dark night. Will Fowler still haunted him as did the actor's young widow. Two battered prostitutes, one of whom had been subsequently murdered, also had a strong claim on his sympathy. He feared for Samuel Ruff whose place with the company was now in jeopardy. He worried for Richard Honeydew. There was even a vestigial concern for Roger Bartholomew, who had been ousted from the theatre almost before he had got into it. The book holder puzzled over the ruined playbills that George Dart had reported with such trepidation. They had enemies enough without that.
What kept pushing itself to the forefront of his mind, however, was the surly face of Benjamin Creech. Why had the man denied being at The Curtain and concealed his old association with Banbury's Men? What had been the real cause of his fight with Will Fowler? Had the injury to Richard Honeydew really been an accident? Did Nicholas truly see a glint of relish in Creech's eyes or had he imagined it?
Speculation and recrimination carried him all the way back to Bankside. He was almost home when the trouble came. Turning into a side-street, he suddenly had the feeling that he was being followed. His years at sea had helped him to develop a sixth sense for self-preservation and his hand stole quickly to his dagger. He listened for a footfall behind him but heard none. When he spun around, there was nobody there. He continued on his way, ready to dismiss it as a trick of his imagination, when a tall, hulking figure stepped out of an alley ahead of him to block his way. The man was some fifteen yards away and seen only in hazy outline through the gloom, but Nicholas knew at once who he was. They had met before at the Hope and Anchor when a friend had be
en murdered. There had been more evidence of his handiwork at The Cardinal's Hat.
Pulling out his dagger, Nicholas bunched himself to charge but he did not get far. Before he had moved a yard or so, something hard and solid struck him on the back of the head and sent him down into a black whirlpool of pain. The last thing he remembered was the sound of footsteps running away over the cobblestones. The rest was cold void.
*
Lawrence Firethorn was at his best in a crisis. The threat of resignation by Barnaby Gill and the sudden loss of Richard Honeydew had imposed pressures which he had surmounted with bravery. Pulling the company together in its hour of need, he fired them with the possibilities of the morrow and infected them with his unassailable self-confidence. The play would be another afternoon of glory for him and it would be followed--in time--by a whole night of magic. Gloriana Triumphant and fourteen lines of poetry would win him the favours of Lady Rosamund Varley.
After all the setbacks of the day, therefore, he returned home with a light step to receive a kiss of welcome from his crusting wife. But the kiss did not come and the trust seemed to have gone. Frost had settled on Margery's ample brow.
'What ails you, my love?' he asked blithely.
'I've been talking with Dicky.'
'Poor lad! Where is he?'
'He has gone to bed to rest that swollen ankle.'
'It was a dreadful accident,' said Firethorn. 'We must thank God that no serious injury resulted.'
'There is a more serious injury,' she added grimly.
'What's that you say, my sweet?'
'Sit down, Lawrence.'
'Why?'
'Sit down!'
The force of her request could not be denied and he sank into a chair. Margery Firethorn stood directly in front of him so that there was no possibility of escape. Her anger was banked down but ready to blaze up at any moment.
'The boy is heart-broken,' she began.
'Who would not be? It is his first leading role--and such a role at that! All his hard work has gone for nothing.'
'He talked about you, Lawrence.'
'Did he?'
'He told me how wonderful it was to play opposite such a superb actor as you.' She waited as he gave a dismissive laugh. 'The boy worships you.'
'Every apprentice should choose a good model.'
'Oh, I am sure that you are an excellent model, sir,' she said crisply. 'As an actor, that is. As a husband, of course, you have your faults and it is not so wonderful to play opposite them.'
'Margery...' he soothed.
'Spare me your ruses, Lawrence.'
'What ruse?'
I spent hours listening to Dick Honeydew,' she said. 'That accident at the playhouse cost him dear. It cost me dear as well.
'You, my angel?'
He lost a role in a play but I have lost far more.'
'I do not understand you, sweeting.'
'Then let me speak more plain, sir,' she asserted with a crackle menace. 'Dicky told me everything. He talked of his speeches and dances and magnificent costumes. He also mentioned the jewellery he was to have worn as Gloriana--including a beautiful Pendant which had nothing at all wrong with its catch...'
Lawrence Firethorn had been caught out. The mast which had fallen on the stage of The Curtain now landed squarely on him. Margery had learned the unkind truth. Far from being a gift that was bought specifically for her, the pendant was a theatrical prop that had been used to mollify her. Reconciliation was now only a distant memory in their marriage. Instead of coming home to a loving wife, he was staring into the eyes of Medusa.
Margery guessed at once what lay behind the subterfuge Reining in her fury, she spoke with an elaborate sweetness.
'What is her name, Lawrence?'
*
'Hold still now,' said Anne Hendrik. 'Let me bathe it properly'
'I'm fine now. Tie the bandage.'
'This wound needs a surgeon.'
'I have no time to stay.'
'Let me send for one, Nick.'
'The pain is easing now,' he lied.
They were at the house in Bankside and Nicholas Bracewell was sitting on a chair while his landlady dressed the gash on the back of his head. As soon as he had recovered consciousness in the street, he had dragged himself up from the ground and staggered on as far as his front door. His hat was sodden with blood, his mind blurred and his whole body was one pounding ache.
When the servant answered his knock on the door, she let out a scream of fright at the condition he was in. Anne Hendrik had rushed out and the two women had carried Nicholas to a chair. Left alone with him, Anne now tended his wound with the utmost care and sympathy. She was almost overwhelmed by apprehension.
'You believe it was the same man?' she asked.
'I know it was.'
'It was dark, Nick. How can you be certain?'
'I would recognize him anywhere. It was Redbeard.'
'A murderous villain, lying in wait for you!' she said with trembling anxiety. 'It does not bear thinking about!'
'I survived, Anne,' he reminded her.
'Only by the grace of God! You are lucky to be alive!'
'They were not after me,' decided Nicholas, trying to make sense of what had happened. 'I would be lying dead in that street now if they had wanted to kill me. No, they were after something else.'
'Your purse?'
'They left that, Anne. What they stole was my satchel.'
'With your prompt book in it?' she gasped.
'Yes. That is what they wanted--Gloriana Triumphant.'
Anne Hendrik saw the implications at once and she blenched. The one complete copy of the play had now disappeared and there was no way that Nicholas could control the performance without it.
'This is terrible!' she exclaimed. 'You will have to cancel the play tomorrow.'
'That is their intention, Anne.'
'But why?'
'I can only guess,' he said. 'Malice, spite, envy, revenge...There are many possible reasons. We work in a jealous profession.'
'Who would do such a thing?'
'I will not rest until I have found out,' he pledged. 'One thing is clear. Redbeard has an accomplice. I could not understand how he could have gained entry to The Cardinal's Hat without being recognized. The answer must be that he did not go back there after that poor creature. It was the other man who slit Alice's throat.'
'To prevent her helping you?'
'I believe so. Redbeard knows that I am after him.'
Anne Hendrik gave a little shiver and finished tying the bandage around his head. The blood had discoloured his fair hair and there was an ugly bruise on his temple from his fall on to the cobbles. Tears of love and compassion trickled down her cheeks. She grabbed at his arm as he stood up.
'You are in no condition to go out again, Nick.'
'I have no choice.'
'Let me come with you,' she volunteered.
No, Anne. I can manage alone. Besides, it will be a long night. Do hot expect me back until morning.'
'Where will you be?' she said, following him to the door.
'Writing a play.'
*
Edmund Hoode had an author's gift for happy invention. Desperate to fall in love again, he had settled on Rose Marwood and he persuaded himself that she was the most divine member of her sex. Her deficiencies were quickly remedied by his burgeoning imagination and she emerged as the girl of his dreams--a magical compound of beauty, wit, charm and understanding. Without realizing it, Rose Marwood had tripped across the innyard and been transformed. Hoode made no allowance for the fact that he had hardly spoken to her. He was in love and romance knows no reason.
An hour of reflection upon her virtues confirmed him in his plan to send her the sonnet. Having written it out again in a fail-hand, he appended the phrase 'Every Happiness', picking out the 'E' and the 'H' with such flourishes of his pen that he felt sure she would identify the initials of her swain.
Further indulgence was cut
short by a banging on the door Nicholas Bracewell was soon invited in to explain his head wound and tell his story. Panic all but throttled Hoode when he heard that his play had been stolen. It was like losing a child.
'What can we do, Nicholas?' he wailed.
'Start again.'
'From what? You had the only complete copy.'
'We will patch it together somehow,' promised the other. 'I have roused George Dart and sent him to fetch what sides he can get from the players. I have been back to The Curtain and retrieved my copy of the Plot. Then there is your knowledge of writing the play and my memory of rehearsing it. If we put all that together, we should be part of the way towards making another prompt book.'
'It will take us all night, Nicholas!'
'Would you rather cancel the performance?'
The thought of it was enough to make Hoode tremble. He needed only a few seconds to come to his decision. Fourteen lines to Rose Marwood were put aside in favour of a few thousand for the audience at The Curtain.
As soon as the scrivener arrived, they got to work as fast as was compatible with accuracy. The copious detail of the Plot which Nicholas had prepared was an enormous help and it stimulated Hoode's memory at once.
Lawrence Firethorn was the next to appear, fulminating against the Earl of Banbury's Men whom he had already identified as the villains. His towering rage, however, was tinged with relief Appalling as the theft of the prompt book was, it had rescued him from interrogation by Margery.
Since his own part was the leading one, the copy which he brought gave the scrivener ample material to work on. Most or the gaps were filled in when the panting George Dart came on the scene with the individual sides from some of the players. While the stagekeeper got his breath back, Nicholas sifted through them and put them in order. One particular copy was missing.
'Did you call on Creech?' asked Nicholas.
'He was not at his lodging, Master Bracewell,' said Dart.
'The nearest tavern is his lodging!' sighed Firethorn.
'I tried there as well, sir.'
'Thank you, George,' said Nicholas.
'Can I go now?'
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