The Queen's Head nb-1

by Edward Marston

'Yes,' ordered Firethorn. 'Find Creech. There is one scene involving him and two mariners that we do not seem to have here. Root him out from his drinking hole, George.'

  'Must I, sir?' moaned Dart.

  'Indeed, you must!'

  'But I've been running about for hours.'

  'Run some more, sir. This is the theatre!'

  Cowed into submission, George Dart went off into the night in search of the hired man. Hoode, Firethorn and Nicholas carried on reassembling the play while the scrivener's quill fluttered busily. Shortly before midnight, the first stoup of wine was served. They would need plenty more to get them through their arduous task.

  Dawn was plucking at the windows by the time that a fair copy was ready. Matthew Upton, the scrivener, was groaning with exhaustion and his writing arm lay limp across his lap. Nicholas now took over. Using his Plot and calling on his phenomenal memory for detail, he annotated the prompt book so that he had every call, cue, entrance, exit and hand property listed in the appropriate place. Seven hours of frantic labour had restored their text to them but it had taxed their strength.

  'I need some sleep,' said Hoode with a yawn.

  It's too late for that,' decided Firethorn. 'We should have breakfast together instead then make an early start for The Curtain.' He turned to Nicholas. 'We will stay beside you as bodyguards every step of the way, dear fellow.'

  You will not need to, Master Firethorn. I will be much more wary now. They took me unawares in Bankside.'

  Banbury's Men!' said Firethorn. 'I know it.'

  Would they stoop to this?' doubted Hoode.

  If they employ Randolph, they'll stoop to anything!'

  'They certainly timed their strike well,' admitted Nicholas

  'On the eve of a performance,' noted Hoode. 'It would have crippled any other company.'

  'But not Westfield's Men,' said Firethorn proudly. 'We have done famously this night, gentlemen--and that includes you, Master Lipton. We have stared defeat in the face and frightened it away. Nick, here, acted with great presence of mind in raising the alarm so quickly. I'm eternally grateful.'

  'So am I,' echoed Hoode.

  'It was the least I could do,' replied Nicholas with embarrass-ment. 'I felt so responsible for the theft of the prompt book that I had to do something.'

  'You must not blame yourself,' said Firethorn kindly.

  'My job was to safeguard that book.'

  'When two ruffians set upon a man without warning, he is entitled to feel outrage and not guilt.' He stood up and made a sweeping gesture. 'It's monstrous! Piracy is something we have come to accept in our profession but this is a crime of a very different order. It's a treachery against the whole spirit of the theatre. Banbury's Men must pay!'

  'If they did it,' said Nicholas sceptically.

  'Of that there is no question, sir! Who else has so much to gain from our humiliation? Giles Randolph and that pack of knaves he calls an acting company! They are definitely behind it.'

  'Will you tax them about it, Lawrence?' asked Hoode.

  'Oh, no. We must make our enquiries by stealth first.'

  'And my play?'

  'We simply carry on as if nothing had happened, Edmund. We show these varlets that it will take more than violence and theft to stop Westfield's Men. We are adamantine proof!'

  There was a pathetic knocking on the door. Nicholas went to open it and George Dart crept in, collapsing from fatigue but bearing what he had been sent to fetch. He held it up to Firethorn and waited for a word of congratulation that never came.

  'You're late, sir,' complained the other.

  'I'm sorry, Master Firethorn.'

  'Where have you been?'

  'Running, sir. To and fro.'

  'Did you find Creech?'

  'Just after midnight,' said the stagekeeper with a yawn.

  'Then what has kept you?'

  'He would not wake up, master. As soon as he did, we went back to his lodging and he gave me what I needed.' He wanted me sort of recognition for his efforts. 'Have I done well, sir?'

  'No,' said Firethorn.

  'Very well, George,' corrected Nicholas.

  'I'll say aye to that,' supported Hoode.

  George Dart smiled for the first time in a week. He handed the sheets to Firethorn then closed his eyes tightly.

  'Good night, sirs!'

  Nicholas caught him as he slumped forward.

  *

  Shoreditch was as busy as ever next morning and the crowds were restive in the hot sun. By midday, people began to converge on The Curtain for the afternoon's entertainment. One of the first to arrive was a short, intense, studious young man in dark attire and hat. He paid a penny to gain entry to the playhouse then a further twopence for the privilege of a cushioned seat in the front row of the second gallery. It was the ideal spot for his purposes.

  As he stared down at the empty stage, he was at once excited and repelled. His work belonged there but it had been viciously flung aside by an uncaring profession. The time had come for him to make his protest and he would do so in the most dramatic fashion that he could devise.

  Roger Bartholomew wanted his revenge.

  (*)Chapter Ten

  The atmosphere backstage at The Curtain was as tense as a lutestring. Keyed up already by the occasion, the company was one large collection of taut nerves when it heard the full story of the missing prompt book. The idea of a direct and vicious attack upon Lord Westfield's Men was deeply unsettling and speculation was rife as to whom the perpetrators could be. It did not put them in the best frame of mind to tackle their new play.

  Superstition weighed heavily with many people and Barnaby Gill voiced the fears of a substantial number.

  'What will be next, I wonder?'

  'How say you?' asked Hoode, already reduced to a shambling wreck by the events of the night.

  'Disasters come in threes, Edmund.'

  'Do they?'

  'We had Dick Honeydew's accident. Then the theft of the book.' His voice explored a lower octave. 'Now--what is to be the third catastrophe?'

  'Your performance!' said Samuel Ruff under his breath and set up a few sniggers around him.

  In seeking to dispel the tension, Lawrence Firethorn merely increased it. Summoning the whole company together in the tiring' house, he gave them a short speech about the need to fight back at their enemies by raising the level of their performance. His exhortations united them all in a common purpose but disseminated an unease that was strangely akin to stagefright. Only the more experienced actors were immune from it.

  'Samuel...'

  'Yes, lad?'

  'I feel sick.'

  'Take some deep breaths, Martin.'

  'This dress is suffocating me.'

  'Drink some water.'

  'I'll never be able to stand still on stage.'

  'Of course, you will,' assured the hired man. 'The moment you step out there, all your worries will disappear. It's the same before a battle when everyone--no matter how brave--feels afraid and unready. As soon as things start, they get carried away by the thrill and the emotion of it all. Theatre is a form of battle, Martin. You'll fight well, I know.'

  The very fact that Martin Yeo could turn to Samuel Ruff showed the extent of the boy's discomfort. Three full years with the company had given him a confidence that sometimes spilled over into arrogance, but he was now bereft of all that. With long faces and dry throats all around him, Yeo had sought out a man whom he had always disliked before. Ruffs composure set him apart from most of the others and the boy drew strength from it. He was even ready to confide a secret.

  'Do you know something, Samuel?'

  'What?'

  'I never thought I'd say this but.

  'You wish Dick was here to play Gloriana.' Yes! How did you guess?'

  'It was not difficult, lad,' said Ruff with mild amusement. 'Shall ' tell you something now?'

  'What?'

  If Dick were in that costume, he'd be wishing that you were taking on the ro
le instead.'

  Nicholas Bracewell was grateful for someone like Ruff to act as a calming influence. Cold panic showed in most eyes and Edmund Hoode was a prime victim. After his sterling work throughout the night, he was now in danger of losing his nerve completely. Doubts about his play became uncertainties about himself and widened into questions about the whole validity of the playhouse. Here was creative suffering of a kind that nobody else could understand. Hoode therefore stalked the perimeter of the tiring-house on his own, finding more and more phantoms to assail him.

  It was Nicholas himself who was the main antidote to the general hysteria. With his head still swathed in bandages, he exerted his usual cool control in a way that instilled peace. As long as the book holder was there, the company had a solid framework in which to operate. It heartened them. Nicholas went out of his way to pass a remark or two with those most in need of moral support. As people swirled to and fro in the tiring-house, he was there with friendly comments.

  'The music was excellent yesterday, Peter.'

  'Thank you.'

  'It could not be improved upon...Thomas...'

  'Yes, master?'

  'We'll need to rely on you heavily today.'

  'Oh, dear,' muttered the old stagekeeper.

  'Your experience will be a rock.'

  'I hope so.'

  'Hugh...'

  'Aye?' called the tireman, fluffing out petticoats for John Tallis.

  'Those costume changes will need to be quick.'

  'We can manage.'

  'Especially Gloriana in the last act.'

  'Two of us will be standing by.'

  'George...'

  'Here, master,' said Dart through a spectacular yawn.

  'You were a Trojan last night.'

  'Did Trojans run their legs off as well, then?'

  'Try not to fall asleep too often.'

  'How am I supposed to stay awake, Master Bracewell?'

  'Gregory...'

  'Not here!'

  'Where is he?'

  'Where do you think?'

  'Again?'

  The general laughter eased the tension. Everybody knew where the jangled Gregory was and it was his fourth visit. Like every other part of the playhouse, the privy made a significant contribution to the performance.

  Nicholas fought off his fatigue and looked around the company.

  Nerve ends were still raw, mouths were still dry and faces were still lack-lustre, but he sensed that the worst was past. They were professionals. The ordeal of the wait would evanesce into the excitement of the performance, and nobody would let himself down. Lord Westfield's Men would survive with honour. He actually began to look forward to it all.

  Resplendent in his Italian doublet and Spanish cape, Lawrence Firethorn sidled over to whisper in his ear.

  'Should I do it again, Nick?'

  'What?'

  'Speak to the troops.'

  'Oh, no.'

  'Have I done enough to lift them already?'

  'More than enough,' said Nicholas tactfully.

  'Good, good.'

  'Lead by example now.'

  It was, as ever, sound advice and Firethorn would take it. He walked away and went through his first speech in a hissed gabble. His book holder had just prevented him from causing even further disarray. The fragile calm which had now descended on the tiring-house would be preserved.

  *

  Sunshine gilded the tall, cylindrical structure of the playhouse and turned the arena itself into a chequered arrangement of light and shadow. The warmth of the sun produced more sweat and smell among the penny stinkards in the pit, and promoted the sale of beer, wine and water. By the same token, it caused mild discomfort in the galleries among the over-dressed gallants and the corseted ladies. There was no breeze to alleviate the heat.

  George Dart would be needed as the west wind.

  It was a glittering occasion. In noise, bustle, eagerness, vulgarity, style, colour, character and high fashion, it even outdid God Speed the Fleet. On a glorious afternoon in an English summer, The Curtain was truly a microcosm of the capital. All classes were accounted for, all tastes included. Courtiers displayed themselves above while criminals concealed themselves below. The middling sort were there in profusion. Accents varied, timbres differed. Wit repartee, banter and foul abuse were in play. High intelligence and bovine illiteracy shared the same space. The wooden circumference enclosed a veritable city.

  Lord Westfield was there to enjoy the reflected glory of his company and to toss down patronizing smiles and waves to the actors. Dark, stocky and of medium height, he wore a doublet that accentuated his paunch and a hat that prevented anyone behind him from seeing the stage. There was a wilful extravagance about Westfield that showed itself in the excesses of his apparel and the size of his entourage. A cup of wine seemed always in his hand, a smile upon his lips. He was a middle-aged sybarite with all the defects that that implied, but his love of the theatre was genuine and his knowledge of its workings was close.

  Sitting diametrically opposite him in another of the lords' rooms was the Earl of Banbury, there to mock and denigrate rather than to be entertained. He picked fussily at his goatee beard and passed disparaging remarks about the players. His own company were going through a comparatively lean patch and envy was never far away. Catching Westfield's eye across the playhouse, he gave a dismissive wave with his fingers and turned away, thus missing the expressive scowl on the other's face.

  Lady Rosamund Varley made a startling entrance. As soon as she settled in her seat, necks craned and eyes popped. She was a rich blend of blues and whites and yellows, and there was no dress to match her. Happily conscious of the attention she was getting, she bestowed a radiant smile on the world.

  Roger Bartholomew remained stonily silent amid the gathering tumult. Everything he saw fed his hate, everything he heard served to swell his rage. Instead of being a celebrated poet with the acclaim he deserved, he was an unsung nonentity with cruel wounds he did not merit. Something darker than envy, and deeper than vengeance, had wormed its way into his brain. It caused a persistent throb in his veined forehead.

  Exiled from the stage that he coveted, he would make his bin for attention. They would all take note of him this time. His plan had the riveting simplicity of its own desperation. It was a searing drama in one unforgettable line. The throbbing in his head got worse. Bartholomew would soon cure it.

  Applause greeted the arrival of the trumpeter and the hoisting of the flag. This was no routine performance. Gossip had been at work. Danger lay at the heart of the enterprise. Lord Westfield's men had been dogged by fate. A hired man was murdered, a young apprentice was injured, a book holder was attacked, and valuable property was stolen. It all added to the sublime feeling of dread, the possibility that something extraordinary was about to happen.

  When the Prologue had introduced the play, Gloriana Triumphant took a grip on the audience that it never relinquished, Its secret lay in its relevance. Everyone could find themselves and their lives in it. The ancient domain of Albion was such an accurate portrait of the England they knew that some of the lines and conceits made them start. Edmund Hoode had found a rare blend. His play had soaring purpose with a common touch.

  Nicholas Bracewell's hand was much in evidence, and not just in the smooth stage management of the afternoon. He had been involved in the creation of the play and had supplied Hoode with endless details about the navy, its ships, its language, its traditions. Again, Nicholas had suggested a number of scenes which involved ordinary English seamen and the privations they suffered. It not only gave Hoode an opportunity for low comedy, it threw the world of admirals and captains into sharp relief.

  One of the Armada myths of the day was that scarcely a hundred English lives were lost in the engagement. Though technically true, it did not take account of the immediate consequences of the battle. Despite widespread illness from rough seas and stale beer, the England seamen had served bravely. Then their water ran out
and they were forced to drink their own urine. Typhus began to kill them like flies and some ships lacked enough men to weigh anchor.

  Gloriana Triumphant did not dwell on all this but it was not ignored. A fuller, rounder, more honest picture of life at sea began to emerge. Samuel Ruff and Benjamin Creech were ideal seamen, tough, comic, long-suffering and endlessly loyal. The standees in the pit connected with the men at once.

  But the real hero of the play and the afternoon was Lawrence Firethorn in a part that enabled him to use all his wolvish energy and all his technical tricks. He was by turns rough, romantic, outspoken, tongue-tied, base and noble. His wooing of the Queen was a mixture of subtle comedy and surging passion, and it was at this point that his performance was directed up at Lady Rosamund Varley. It was quite hypnotic.

  Lady Rosamund was enthralled and Lord Westfield was enraptured. Even the Earl of Banbury was reduced to impotent silence. Roger Bartholomew was captivated in another way. The sight of Firethorn at once sharpened his urge to act and delayed the moment. It was as if Bartholomew wanted to build up maximum fury before he moved. His chance came in the fifth act

  Nicholas Bracewell had spent a long time devising the sea battle and it had a whole battery of complex effects. Agile stagekeepers were kept running around to provide various effects and George Dart was the western wind on a blustery day. Firethorn stood on the poop deck and yelled his orders. Ruff, Creech and the other seamen sweated on the gun deck below. The mast was secured by the ropes. The cannons were positioned on both sides of the vessel.

  Through the open trap door in the middle of the stage could be heard the swishing of water. As the battle intensified, water was thrown up on stage to splash and soak and run. One of the seamen, apparently hit by a cannon ball, was knocked through the trap door and into the sea. It was a simple device but it pleased the audience and worked well.

  Action became more frenetic as the play moved towards its climax. Firethorn shouted and bellowed to fine effect as his vessel came under intense bombardment. At the pull of a rope, half the rigging on the mast came adrift and fell to the stage. Explosions, fireworks, drums, cymbals, gongs and trumpets were used to augment the sound and din the ears. Metal trays of fire were slid onstage to suggest areas of the deck that had been hit. Buckets of water filled from the trap door were thrown over the flames to douse them.