Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘Only when I stand before you.’

‘And lie beneath me, my little pomegranate.’

He spoke with such tender lechery that even her resolve weakened. A big, buxom, bustling woman in a simple working dress, she let herself be flattered by his words and by the admiring glances he now directed at her. With all its faults, the marriage had never lacked excitement or pleasure. Another episode now beckoned.

‘You left my side too soon,’ he cooed.

‘There was much to be done below.’

‘Come back to me for a moment of wild madness.’

‘It would be madness indeed at this hour.’

‘Let me show you how much I love you, Margery.’

Her doubts were temporarily wiped away and she moved in close to be gathered into whirling embrace. She was lifted bodily into the bed and let out a girlish laugh as he rolled on top of her but their joy was short-lived. Before he could plant the first whiskery kiss on her eager lips, pandemonium broke out. A pan boiled over in the kitchen and set off an argument between the two servant girls. The children began a noisy fight and the four apprentices went thundering down the stairs for their breakfast. Worst of all, there was a loud knock on the door of the bedchamber and one of the actors put a decisive end to the snatched happiness.

‘I must speak with you at once, sir,’ he said.

Firethorn’s howl of rage deafened all of Shoreditch.

The Theatre was the first purpose-built public playhouse in London. Situated just north of Holywell Lane, at the angle of Curtain Road and New Inn Yard, it was outside the city boundaries and thus free of its niggling regulations yet close enough to attract the large audiences that came streaming out through Bishopsgate to enjoy its facilities and view its productions. It had been constructed in 1576 under the supervision of James Burbage, a determined man who had begun life as a joiner only to renounce his trade in favour of the theatre. Talent and application helped him to become the leading actor with Leicester’s Men but he had a fondness for security and a flair for management that led him to erect The Theatre at an estimated cost of some £666. Even though he bickered thereafter with his partner, John Brayne, a litigious grocer who also happened to be his brother-in-law, the importance of his pioneering work could not be denied. The first permanent home for actors gave their art a new lustre and status. They were at last taken seriously.

Animals influenced humans. For it was the bear-and bull-baiting arenas of Bankside which provided the basic principles of construction. The Theatre was a polygonal building made of stout timber and a modicum of ironwork. Where it differed from the animal-baiting houses was in its imaginative detail. The ring itself was covered with brick and stone, thus turning it into a paved yard with efficient drainage. A stage thrust out boldly into the yard, supported by solid posts rather than by the trestles and barrels used at places like the Queen’s Head. At the rear of the stage was a tiring-house which gave the company easy access to the playing area. Above the back section of this area was a cover known as the heavens. Held aloft by tall pillars, it was in turn surmounted by a small hut that could be used to house any suspension gear that was needed for a particular play or, indeed, as a tiny acting area in itself.

The last major difference that separated The Theatre from the standard arena was its use of a third gallery. The Bankside baiting houses were all two-storey buildings that were roughly similar in design. James Burbage did not make his playhouse tower above Shoreditch simply in order to attest its presence. An extra gallery meant an increase in the number of patrons and a corresponding rise in the income that any company could expect. And though the place was an outdoor venue, its cylindrical shape was a form of umbrella against inclement weather and the thatched roofs above the galleries added a great measure of comfort and protection. Much care and thought had gone into the whole venture. It was the brainchild of a true man of the theatre.

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive. His visit to the Queen’s Head had only served to deepen his fears that their days at the inn were numbered. With all his appalling faults, Alexander Marwood did actually allow the company to flourish on his premises and the makeshift stage had witnessed some of their finest achievements. If Rowland Ashway acquired the property, he would have no qualms in turning Westfield’s Men out into the street. Fresh anxieties surfaced about the likely fate of his fellows. A huge black cloud hung over the future of the company and Nicholas was the only person who knew about it. How long he could keep the fact to himself remained to be seen but it was already causing him profound disquiet.

Thomas Skillen was the next to turn up at The Theatre. The venerable stagekeeper had been with Westfield’s Men since their formation but his roots in the drama went much deeper than that. For over forty years now, he had survived in a ruinous profession that had hurled so many people into oblivion, and he had done so by virtue of his quick wits and total reliability. What hope would there be for him if he was driven out of his job now? Advancing age and creaking joints had slowed him down but he could still assert his authority. George Dart found this out when he came running out onto the stage to be given a clip across the ear by the senior man.

‘You struck me, Thomas!’ he said in alarm.

‘Aye, sirrah, I did.’

‘For what reason?’

‘For none at all, George. The blow was on account.’

‘But I have done nothing amiss.’

‘You will, sirrah. You will.’

Nicholas stepped in to rescue the injured party and to assign jobs to both men. Double Deceit was a highly complicated play which made heavy demands on those behind the scenes. It was an amiable comedy about two pairs of identical twins who get caught up in an escalating series of mistakes and misapprehensions. Inspired by one of the plays of Plautus, it was a glorious romp that never failed to delight its audiences but it called for several scene changes and required an interminable list of properties.

By the time that others began to appear, Thomas Skillen and George Dart had set the stage so that the rehearsal could begin and were attending to a myriad other duties.

Lawrence Firethorn waited until the full company was assembled before he strode out onto the stage with his characteristic swagger. A raised hand compelled silence.

‘Gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Let me rid your minds of one abiding error. This is not a rehearsal of an old and ailing text whose sparkle has been dimmed by the passage of time. Double Deceit is no plodding nag who asks no more of us than to sit back lazily in the saddle and guide her in the right direction. She is a mettlesome filly whom we take out on her first full gallop today. Wear your spurs, my friends, and do not be shy of using them. We must ride hell for leather into glory!’

Younger members of the cast were stirred by his speech but older hands were more cynical. Barnaby Gill leant over to whisper to Edmund Hoode.

‘As I foretold, she is coming to the performance.’

‘Who?’

‘The latest sacrificial victim for his bed,’ said Gill sardonically. ‘That is why we would put some ginger into Double Deceit. He wants to warm the lady up so that she is glowing strongly when he boards her. Westfield’s Men are being used as his pimps.’

‘Lawrence does not always meet with success.’

‘Nor shall he this time, Edmund. This ignoble plot shall be nipped in the bud. I’ll act him off the stage and end the matter there.’

The boast was stillborn. It was easier to perform triple somersaults through the eye of a needle than to out-act Lawrence Firethorn when he turned on his full power. For that is what he did at the rehearsal. There was no holding back, no harbouring of his resources for the afternoon. In the twin roles of Argos of Rome and Argos of Florence, he was a soaring comet who dazzled all around him. Barnaby Gill doubled manfully in the parallel roles of the comic servants, Silvio of Rome and Silvio of Florence, but it took all his energy to keep pace with his two masters, let alone try to overtake either.