Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

As they merged with the jostling crowd which pressed in through the gate, an immediate problem exercised Firethorn.

‘What of Love’s Sacrifice? ’ he asked.

‘It will have its hour at The Rose.’

‘Sebastian was to have played Benvolio.’

‘Assign the role to someone else.’

‘Edmund has written the part with him in mind.’

‘A good actor will trim the role to suit himself,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we have the ideal substitute in Owen Elias.’

Firethorn was dismissive. ‘He is not competent.’

‘He proved his mettle in Marriage and Mischief. ’

‘A harmless romp of no consequence. Love’s Sacrifice is richer material. It is drama in a tragic vein.’

‘Then Owen elects himself. Tragedy is his strength.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

‘Put him to the test, sir.’

‘We will look elsewhere for our Benvolio.’

‘Against the wishes of the author?’ said Nicholas. ‘I have it from Edmund Hoode himself. He told me that Owen would be a wiser choice for Benvolio than Sebastian. Your worthy poet will confirm that opinion and Master Gill will lend his authority to it as well.’

‘Ha!’ snarled Firethorn with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. ‘What do playwrights know of true players? What do mincing comedians know of real men? Edmund and Barnaby may say what they wish. I am proof against their folly.’

‘But I share it, Master Firethorn.’

‘You side with them against me !’ accused the other.

‘I support Owen Elias to the hilt.’

‘Treachery!’

‘No, sir. Fair dealing.’

Firethorn turned an apoplectic stare on him but Nicholas met it without flinching. A silent battle of wills took place. Without his book holder’s support, Firethorn would have enormous difficulty in getting his way against the combined determination of Hoode and Gill. He tried to cow Nicholas with a growl of disapproval but the latter stuck bravely to his guns. Few people dared to obstruct the freewheeling tyranny of Lawrence Firethorn. Fewer still could do so with such audacity and composure.

Nicholas was adamant. ‘Owen Elias is your man.’

The actor-manager put all his anger into another long stare but it lacked the power to frighten or subdue. He was up against the one person in the company whom he could not bully into submission, the one person who was a match for him. He eventually accepted it. Stamping his foot hard on the cobbles, he capitulated in a pained gurgle.

‘So be it.’

The decision would have dire repercussions.

Whitehall was the biggest palace in Christendom. Covering some twenty-four acres, it incorporated all the grandiose extensions and refinements that Henry VIII had bestowed upon it with such kingly zeal. Like Hampton Court, it was one of the rich spoils of Wolsey’s fall, but every sign of the Archbishop’s occupation was ruthlessly swept away to be replaced by the distinctive symbols of the Tudor dynasty. In its decorative solidity and its sprawling wonder, it embodied the pomp and circumstance of the new monarchy. By the time that Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, Whitehall was firmly established as the seat of government and it was here that she so often presided over her court.

Attendance at court was the social obligation of the aristocracy and the distant hope of lesser mortals. It was the setting in which the Virgin Queen lived out her public and private lives. The court was the centre of affairs, the source of patronage, and the regular avenue to profit and promotion. Those who wished to rise in the world or simply maintain the eminence they had already achieved were duty-bound to make regular appearances at court and participate in its sophisticated games and rituals. It was an expensive commitment since courtiers were expected to dress finely at all times and to spend long hours gambling and gossiping in the corridors of power but it was a charge that could not be shirked. To be out of court was to be out of favour and so the nobility flocked to Whitehall to show due respect, to mingle with their peers and to gain advancement.

The Queen set high standards for her courtiers. She valued intelligence in a man, ability to sing songs to a lute, skill in the composition of lyric poetry and prowess in the tiltyard. Her favourites tended to be those of all-round excellence. Like her father, she wanted her court to be a cultural centre where music, drama, poetry and the dance could flourish. To this end, she allowed the Great Hall to be used on many occasions for music recitals and the performance of plays. Those few enlightened souls who retained their own theatrical companies were thus looked upon with special favour. It made Lord Westfield’s visits to court a source of continual pleasure.

‘What is the new piece called, my lord?’

‘ Love’s Sacrifice. ’

‘We have all made that in our time.’

‘And will hope to do so again.’

Polite outrage. ‘My lord!’

‘I will never be too old to admire a trim shape and a fair countenance, nor yet too wasted to desire a closer acquaintance with such an angel.’

Lord Westfield’s entourage laughed obediently. He was a portly man of cheerful disposition who devoted himself to the promotion of the arts and the pursuit of pleasure. Excess intruded upon his style of life and choice of apparel. As he led his little group of sycophants towards the Presence Chamber at Whitehall, he was wearing a slashed doublet of aquamarine hue above bombasted trunk hose in a lighter shade. A white ruff supported the amiable bearded face and the long grey hair was hidden beneath a dark-blue hat that was a forest of light-blue feathers. Rings, jewels and a gleaming sword added to the ostentation. A golden chain that let its medallion rest on his sternum completed the dazzling effect. Lord Westfield liked to catch the eye. It was one of the ways he tried to assert his superiority over the loathed Earl of Banbury.

‘Who comes here?’ he said. ‘Stand aside, friends.’

‘The Earl is much moved.’

‘I did not think his legs could scurry so fast.’

‘What can this mean, my lord?’

‘My prayers would have him expelled from court but this sudden departure may betoken something else.’

‘Will you speak to him?’

‘Only with a naked blade.’

Muted sniggers from the entourage before they offered perfunctory bows to the approaching Earl of Banbury. With his own cronies in attendance, the latter was making a hasty and not altogether dignified exit from Whitehall. He threw a glance of hostility at his rival as they passed, then curled a lip in amusement. Lord Westfield’s ire was aroused at once. The Earl knew something that he did not and he was rushing off to act upon his intelligence in order to seize the advantage. Only a matter of the gravest significance could send the noble gentleman away from Whitehall at such a canter and Lord Westfield was desperate to know what it was. He did not have long to wait. Other figures came streaming down the corridor in busy conference and he pounced on one of them without ceremony.

‘What is the news, sir?’ he demanded.

‘The Queen will not hold court today.’

‘How so?’

‘Her Majesty is indisposed.’

‘What is the nature of her illness?’

‘Physicians are in constant attendance.’

Lord Westfield stood back to let the man beat his own retreat from Whitehall. The general exodus could now be explained. Queen Elizabeth was unwell. A monarch who prided herself on her health, who was abstemious with her food and drink, who exercised regularly and who paced her life with extreme care, had actually taken to her bed. It was no minor indisposition. The Queen knew the importance of being seen by her subjects and it was not only her courtiers who viewed her on a daily basis. The main road from Westminster to Charing Cross ran straight through Whitehall so ordinary citizens could express their affection for their sovereign by bringing small gifts for her or simply by waiting for hours to be rewarded by the glimpses of her person that she would considerately afford them. Elizabeth was a visible Queen who revelled in her visibility. But she was also on the verge of her sixtieth year and the burdens of her long reign must have taken their toll. If her physicians had been called then a crisis was in the offing.