The Queen's Head nb-1

by Edward Marston

  Firethorn now gave the command and the cannon went off, not one as in the earlier play, but four in ascending order of volume. Even this effect was topped. As the booming echoed and reverberated around the playhouse, the figure of a small man in black climbed on to the balcony of the second gallery and launched himself off with a wild cry of despair.

  Misjudging his leap, he landed in the folds of the sail, which broke his fall before hurtling him to the stage with sufficient force to knock him unconscious. It was a breathtaking moment and the audience had never seen anything like it. Neither had Lawrence Firethorn but he coped with the situation magnificently. Everyone believed it was part of the play and he did not break faith with them. With two extempore lines, he ordered his men to gather up the body of the Spanish dog and throw it overboard. Roger Bartholomew was lowered unceremoniously through the trap door.

  In trying to ruin the play and achieve immortality by his public act of suicide, the tormented poet had enhanced the drama and simply given himself a worse headache.

  Martin Yeo came on to knight her faithful sea dog then the piece ended to sustained applause and cheering. The whole company had been superb and overcome all their problems.

  Nobody noticed that Bartholomew missed his bow.

  *

  Lady Rosamund Varley waited with friends in a private room and marvelled afresh at the remarkable stunt they had seen. Gloriana Triumphant was well-named. It had consigned God Speed the Fleet to a watery grave. Edmund Hoode's play would rule the waves.

  Refreshments were served while the chat continued, then Lord Westfield brought in Lawrence Firethorn. He began with an elegant bow to Lady Rosamund and her radiant smile shone for him alone. Though he was introduced to the others in the room, he hardly heard their names. Only one person existed for him.

  She extended a gloved hand for him to kiss.

  'You were superb, Master Firethorn,' she congratulated.

  'I was inspired by your presence, Lady Varley.'

  'You know how to flatter, sir.'

  'Truth needs no embellishment.'

  Her brittle laugh rang out then she moved in closer.

  'What is your next play to be?' she asked.

  'Whatever you wish, Lady Varley.'

  'Me, sir?'

  'We have a large repertory. How would you care to see me?'

  'As Hector.'

  Their eyes were conversing freely and they talked with a pleasing directness. Firethorn was entranced by her coquettish manner and she was fascinated by his boldness.

  'When would you have me play, Lady Varley?'

  'As soon as it may suit you, sir.'

  'The performance will be dedicated to you.'

  'I would regard that as a signal honour, Master Firethorn '

  'Shall I send word when a date has been set?'

  'I will be mortified if you do not.'

  'Then it will be soon, that I can promise you.'

  'Good,' she said evenly. 'I'll hold you to that, sir.'

  'And I will hold you, Lady Varley.'

  The assignation was made. In a crowded room, and at the first time of meeting, they had agreed to a tryst. He was quite transported. The afternoon had blessed him. It is not given to many men to defeat the Spanish Armada and conquer Lady Rosamund Varley within the space of a few hours.

  *

  Benjamin Creech left the playhouse with some of his fellows but he soon left them to head off on his own. Like the rest of the company, he had enjoyed the exhilaration of performance and it had left him with the same feeling of release. In his case, however, that feeling was tempered by something else. A man with divided loyalties finds it difficult to rejoice.

  Nobody knew the taverns of London as intimately and as comprehensively as he did, so he had no difficulty in finding the one to which he had been summoned. A stroll along Eastcheap, a left turn, then a right, and he was there. At the sign of the Beetle and Wedge. Feeling his thirst deepen, he went in through the door and ducked beneath the low beam.

  'Hello, Ben. Thank you for coming.'

  'Aye.'

  'Let me buy you a drink, old fellow. Wine or beer?'

  'Beer.'

  'You haven't changed, I see. Come and sit down.'

  'Aye.'

  Creech lowered himself into a chair opposite his host and looked up into the dark, satanic features. When the drinks were served, they raised their cups and clinked them together.

  'To the future!' said his companion.

  'That's as maybe, sir.'

  'You are in a position to help us a great deal, Ben.'

  'Aye.'

  'We are grateful.'

  Creech watched him carefully and waited for him to make the first move. They had known each other for some years now. The man was clever, persuasive and resourceful with a dark streak in his nature that commended him to Creech. It gave the two of them something in common.

  He liked Giles Randolph.

  *

  Anne Hendrik was dining at home with her lodger and hearing about the extraordinary events at The Curtain that afternoon. She put her cutlery aside in astonishment when she heard about the dive that Roger Bartholomew had made from the second gallery.

  'Was he badly hurt?' she said with concern.

  'The surgeon recovered him,' explained Nicholas. 'He was taken back to his lodging to rest.'

  'Why on earth did he do such a thing?'

  'As a means of revenge against the company.'

  'Because you rejected his play?'

  'Master Bartholomew could not live with the disappointment. It preyed on his mind until his wits turned. The theatre can drive people to extremes at times, Anne.'

  'I know that,' she said meaningfully.

  'He was greatly vexed that his suicide jump failed,' Nicholas went on. 'Nothing he has done in a theatre has succeeded.'

  'Poor fellow!' He has been sorely tried.'

  'Yes, Anne. But he did solve one mystery for us.'

  'Mystery?'

  'Those playbills that George Dart put up for us.'

  'Master Bartholomew tore them down?' she said in amazement.

  'Desperate men are pushed into desperate actions.'

  Anne sighed and picked up her cutlery again. Then her eye went back to the bloodstained bandage around Nicholas's head.

  Her worries converged upon him once more. How is your own wound, Nick?' she said.

  'My head is still attached to my body,' he joked lightly

  'Did you ask the surgeon to examine it?'

  'Do not distress yourself about it, Anne. I am in good health now.' He raised a finger to touch the bandage. 'I wear this simply to excite your sympathy.'

  'What of that man with the red beard?'

  His manner changed at once and he became much more earnest

  'I have even more cause to find the rogue now,' he said with his jaw tightening. 'Redbeard and his accomplice have a lot to answer for and I mean to bring them to account.'

  'But how?' she asked. 'In a city of over a hundred thousand people two men can easily stay hidden. How will you seek them out, Nick?'

  'I may not have to do that,' he suggested.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Instead of going after them, I can wait till they come to me. For they will surely strike again.'

  'Oh, Nick!' she sighed, fearing for him once more.

  'I am not their intended victim,' he assured her. 'They had their chance to dispose of me last night and they did not take it. No, Anne, they are working to some complex plan.'

  'I do not follow you.'

  'It all started with the death of Will Fowler.'

  'But that was an accident,' she argued. 'He lost his temper and was drawn into a quarrel. It was a random brawl.'

  'That is what I thought,' he admitted, 'but I have grave doubts now. I believe that Will was deliberately murdered and that everything else which has happened--including the theft of our prompt book--is linked together.'

  'What are you saying, Nick?'
r />   'The real target is Lord Westfield's Men,' he said with conviction. 'Someone is trying to destroy the company.'

  (*)Chapter Eleven

  Having found a rose in full bloom, Edmund Hoode lost his heart to her completely. He loved her ardently with a reckless disregard of her unsuitability for this honour. Rose Marwood was a goddess in an apron to him. Her blithe presence in his life gave it new hope and purpose. The agonies surrounding the performance of his play had left him even more in need of the heady consolations of romance, and he was driven by one desire. She must be his.

  Alexander Marwood was a serious hindrance to his wishes. The landlord's vigorous melancholy drew much of its strength from his fears for his daughter. Obsessed with the notion that Rose would be debauched at any moment, he rarely let her out of his sight. One of the penalties of giving hospitality to a dramatic-company at The Queen's Head was that every female on the premises was put at risk. To the harrowed landlord, all actors were promiscuous lechers without a moral scruple between them and the fact that two of his serving-wenches were with child confirmed this view.

  Edmund Hoode was therefore baulked time and again, whenever he stole upon the girl, her father appeared from nowhere with an errand which sent her running off. On the one occasion that Marwood himself did not prevent a casual meeting between the lover and his lass, it was the girl's mother who intervened. Tall, big-boned and generously plump, she had a hawk-eyed watchfulness that put Hoode to flight in seconds.

  His chance eventually came, however, and he was equal to it. From the window of the rehearsal room, he saw his beloved stroll into the yard with her young brother. Hoode had already bribed one of the stagekeepers to assist him and he now signalled the fellow over. George Dart--the most loveless member of the company--had been chosen to bear Cupid's arrow.

  'Yes, master?'

  'Come with me, George.'

  'Where are we going, sir?' asked the other, as he was hustled out and down a flight of stairs. 'Am I to perform that service for you now?'

  They reached the yard and Hoode glanced in through the open door of the taproom. Delighted that both Marwood and his wife were busy within, he gave Dart his orders.

  'She talks over there with her brother.' He handed over a small scroll. 'Give this to her privily.'

  'How, sir? The young fellow will see me.'

  'Distract him in some way'

  'By what device?'

  'Do your office and be quick about it.'

  'I will try, sir.'

  'You will succeed, George,' warned Hoode ominously. 'That missive is for her eyes only. Away!'

  'Yes, master.'

  Hoode stepped into the taproom and loitered near the door. Keeping one eye on the girl's parents, he watched the diminutive stagekeeper skip across the yard. George Dart excelled himself. He reached the couple, stepped between them and relayed a message to the boy before guiding him firmly away. Rose Marwood was left alone, wondering how the scroll had got into her hand.

  When she studied the seal, a look of pleasant surprise lit up her whole face. Edmund Hoode positively glowed.

  "Open it, my love,' he whispered. 'Open it.'

  She obeyed his command as if she had heard it, breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment. Her surprise now gave way to bewilderment. With a frown of concentration, she stared at the sonnet for a few moments then turned it upside down to regard it anew from a different angle.

  Hoode was aghast. He had expected his fourteen lines to wing their way straight to her heart and make her melt with passion. It had never even crossed his mind that this paragon, this ethereal beauty, this image of perfection could have any flaw. The truth was forced upon him with brutal suddenness. Rose Marwood could not read.

  *

  It had been going on for several days before a pattern began to emerge. Hugh Wegges noted that a few small items were missing from the tiring-house, Peter Digby was irritated by the disappearance of some sheet music, Thomas Skillen lost his favourite broom and John Tallis could not find his cap. Other instances of petty pilfering went unreported. The next victim was Samuel Ruff.

  He and Nicholas Bracewell had enjoyed a drink together after a day's rehearsal at The Queen's Head. They were seated in the taproom and Ruff made to pay the reckoning. When he opened his purse, however, it was empty.

  'My money has been stolen!'

  'How much was in the purse?' asked Nicholas.

  'No more than a few groats but they were honestly earned.'

  'And dishonestly taken, it would seem.'

  When could it have happened?' said Ruff, as baffled as he was annoyed. 'I've not been in crowds where pickpockets could easily set on me. My whole day has been spent here among my fellows.

  Nicholas sighed. 'We have a thief in our midst.'

  'Here?'

  'You are not the only victim, Sam. I have had complaints all week. Someone has a wandering hand.'

  'Hunt the villain down!'

  'We will. But do not trouble yourself about the reckoning. I will settle it this time.'

  'Only until I am paid,' insisted Ruff. 'I will owe you the money until then, Nick. I always pay my debts.'

  'It is such a small amount, Sam. Hardly a debt.'

  'I felt nothing,' admitted Ruff, staring in dismay at his empty purse. 'He is a light-fingered rascal, whosoever he is.'

  'When did you last take coins out yourself?'

  'At noon. To pay for my food and drink.'

  'And since then?'

  'The purse has been at my waist ever since.' A memory nudged him. 'Except for a few minutes when Hugh Wegges made me try on a new costume. There were a dozen or more of us in the tiring-house'

  'Can you recall who they were?'

  'No. I had no call to pay heed. Why?'

  'One of them is the thief.'

  Samuel Ruff was deeply upset by it all. It had been some time since he had earned a regular wage and he had learned to husband his money carefully. The thought that one of his own fellows might have robbed him hurt badly. He plunged into gloom.

  'This is an omen,' he decided.

  'Of what?'

  'The tide is turning against me. It had to come.' A sigh of regret was followed by a helpless shrug. 'I was happy to belong to the company until this.'

  'We are happy to have you, Sam.'

  'It has meant everything to me, Nick, and I cannot thank you enough for your part in it all.' Embarrassment made him lower his head. 'You met me at...a difficult time...when I was...'

  'You do not have to explain,' said Nicholas kindly to spare him any further discomfort. 'I understand.'

  Samuel Ruff had been brought back from the dead as an actor. Having resigned himself to leaving the profession, he had been given one last chance to redeem himself and had done so admirably. The tiny spark inside him had been fanned into flame again and he had revelled in the world that he loved. Nicholas had watched it with pleasure. Samuel Ruff had been given back his dignity.

  'And now it is all over,' said the actor sadly.

  'That is not so, Sam.'

  'But Master Gill is adamant. He will not tolerate me.'

  'He is only one of the sharers,' Nicholas pointed out. 'The others know your true value, Sam.'

  'They would still rather let me go than Master Gill.'

  'It may not come to that.'

  'Please try to help me!' begged Ruff, clutching at the other's wrist. 'I am desperate to stay with Westfield's Men. No other company would take me now. Please, Nick, use what influence you have on my behalf.'

  'I will,' promised Nicholas. 'Take heart.'

  'And what of Master Gill?'

  'We must study to persuade him.'

  'Will he submit, think you?'

  'Every man can have his mind changed.'

  'I truly hope so!' He released Nicholas's wrist and sat back with a tired smile. 'Such a change in my life! When we two first met in that tavern, I was minded to go home.'

  'You did go home, Sam.'

  'I did?'


  'To the theatre.'

  Ruff acknowledged the remark with a nod then his smile became more confidential. He leaned across the table.

  'Shall I make confession to you, Nick?'

  'Of what?'

  'I hate cows. I cannot abide the beasts.'

  'We saved you from that,' said Nicholas with a grin.

  'Oh, you did so much more, my friend!'

  When Marwood had been paid for the ale, they went out together into the yard. Evening was starting to close in on what had been a fine, clear day. They reached the main gate and paused at the archway. Ruffs emotion showed through again.

  'I could not bear to lose this, Nick!'

  He shook the book holder's hand warmly then strode off through the archway to head towards his lodging. Nicholas cast one more glance around the yard and would have gone out into Gracechurch Street himself if his attention had not been caught by a sign of movement at a window. It was the tiring-house.

  Nicholas was troubled. Everyone else from the company had gone home and the room had been locked up to protect the valuable costumes that were stored there. His first instinct was to cross to the window and peer in but that might alert whoever was inside. He decided instead to go back into the taproom to confront Marwood.

  'Could I have the key to the tiring-house, please?'

  "It has not been returned, Master Bracewell.'

  'Then who has it?'

  'I have no idea, sir.'

  'Give me the key to the adjacent room.'

  'What is amiss?' asked the worried landlord.

  'Oh, nothing,' said Nicholas casually, trying to make light of it. 'I daresay that Hugh Wegges is working late on a costume.' He took the proferred key. 'Thank you, Master Marwood. I will return it very soon.'

  Nicholas hurried off to the tiring-house and tried the door. It was locked. He went around to the door of the adjacent room and let himself quietly in. Crossing the floorboards with a gentle tread, he reached the door that connected with the tiring-house and put his ear to it. Muffled sounds came from within and he thought he heard a costume swish. He had no doubt what was happening. The thief was at work again.

  Lifting the latch with painful slowness, he eased the door wide enough open to look into the tiring-house. He was so startled by what he saw that he had to blink. It was the most unexpected discovery of all and he could not at first believe it.