Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘You are not alone in that, Sir Lucas.’

‘He is unworthy to follow in my footsteps.’

‘As for that young wife of his …’

‘It ought not to be allowed,’ said the other in a fit of moral indignation. ‘A man should pay for his pleasures in private, not flaunt them before the whole city of London!’

‘She is a pretty creature, though, I grant him that.’

‘Stanford is bestial!’

‘He is not Lord Mayor yet.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.’

Sir Lucas Pugsley sat upright in his chair and spat out his words like a snake expelling its venom.

‘I would do anything to stop him!’

Fine weather and high expectation saw large crowds of playgoers surging north out of the city. Many of them converged on The Curtain, the other public playhouse in Shoreditch, a circular structure that stood on land that had once been part of Holywell Priory. Banbury’s Men were in residence there and the audience flocked to see Giles Randolph as the evil King John. His reputation was overshadowed by that of Lawrence Firethorn, who brought even more spectators hurrying through the doors of The Theatre. Once again, Westfield’s Men had the critical edge over its hated rivals.

Abel Strudwick had never been to a play before and he was bewildered by the whole experience. Having paid his penny to one of the gatherers, he went through into the yard and stood as close to the stage as he could. He was soon part of a jostling throng with a carnival spirit and he succumbed willingly to the prevailing atmosphere of mirth. His poems were a source of immense pride to him but he had only so far recited them to his wife and to Nicholas Bracewell. The thought of standing up on that scaffold and entertaining a huge crowd with the work of his creative imagination was quite exhilarating. Long before Double Deceit began, he had got his penny’s worth.

Matilda Stanford was ushered into the second gallery by her stepson. A friend of his had helped to escort her at the Queen’s Head but the young man felt able to look after her alone at The Theatre. William Stanford had opted for a black doublet with a wide-shouldered look and for matching hose. Silver flashes relieved the impression of total darkness and silver feathers adorned his hat. His stepmother had chosen a blend of subtle greens in a dress that displayed all her best features to advantage. Her hair and clothing were perfumed and she carried a pomander to ward off any unpleasant smells that might arise in a packed auditorium. The mask which dangled from her other hand could be used to hide the blushes that were already threatening to come as her presence was noted by the gallants who surrounded her. Compliments and comments ambushed her from all sides.

The keenest attention she received, however, was from Argos of Rome. Costumed for his first entrance, Lawrence Firethorn peered through a chink in the curtain at the rear of the stage to pick out his beloved. She looked even more alluring than before, with those blue eyes and red lips lighting up her porcelain skin. Matilda Stanford had true radiance and he prostrated himself before it.

Nicholas Bracewell came quietly up behind him.

‘Stand by, sir.’

‘She had my invitation, Nick. She is here .’

‘So is the hour of two.’

‘I knew that she would not disappoint me!’

‘Stand by, Argos of Rome!’

‘This is earthly paradise.’

‘We begin!’

The book holder was firmly in control of the whole operation once the performance started and not even the company’s star was allowed to forget that. Firethorn moved quickly across to join Barnaby Gill in readiness for their entrance. The signal was given by Nicholas, the trumpet sounded and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak to receive a virgin ripple of applause and to outline the plot of Double Deceit in rhyming couplets. Argos and Silvio then burst onto the stage in a flurry of arms and legs as the master upbraided his servant and beat him black and blue. Firethorn’s voice was hoarse with outrage as he listed his complaints and Gill made the audience collapse with laughter at the hilarious way he fell to the ground each time he was struck. The comic timing and the physical dexterity of the two men was breathtaking. They had won everyone over by the time they made their exit then they reappeared instantly in other guises to win the spectators over even more completely.

Double Deceit had never been played with such panache.

There was only one dissentient voice.

‘I am wasted in this verminous comedy.’

‘Your hour will come, Owen.’

‘It is a crime to subdue such talent as mine.’

‘Do but wait awhile and it will shine forth.’

‘I have waited too long already, Nick.’

‘So have many others, I fear.’

‘Who cares about those wretches? I am better .’

Owen Elias was no shrinking violet. While other hired men took what they could get and were profoundly grateful, he was forever trying to plead his cause. He was without question a far more skilful performer than most of his fellows and his lilting voice was a joy to hear when it was given blank verse to declaim. But his talent as an actor was not matched by his tact as a diplomat. In thrusting himself forward so openly, he jeopardised his already slim chances of advancement. Nicholas liked him immensely for his Celtic charm and forthrightness but he recognised the fatal flaw in his friend. The runaway arrogance made Owen Elias into his own worst enemy.

‘Do you see what I mean, Nick?’

‘Tell me later, sir.’

‘I can do all that Master Firethorn can.’

‘You distract me, Owen.’

‘They loved me.’

‘Stand aside, I pray.’

Nicholas was too busy at his post to listen to the actor at that moment but there was a degree of truth in what the Welshman said. In his brief appearance as Argos of Rome, he not only looked and moved remarkably like Lawrence Firethorn, he even sounded like him. Indeed, the audience was so stunned by the similarity between the two men that they really believed they were looking at a pair of identical twins. It was, literally, a double deceit.

Firethorn was left alone to deliver the Epilogue.

He was leaving the audience in no doubt about the fact that he had played the two parts. He changed cloaks on the line about the brooding Argos and put on his other hat when he referred to a dome. Then he went on to repeat the process throughout the remainder of the Epilogue, thus confirming his genius as a theatrical chameleon. It was a play in itself and the spectators were spellbound.

Abel Strudwick had been hypnotised by it all for two hours and this final piece of bravura left him totally awestruck. The furious pace and the freewheeling humour gave him an experience that altered his whole view of himself. He wanted somehow to be part of it all, to shed the onerous burdens of being a waterman and join the marvellous world of theatre. What had aroused most wonder in him was the quality of the verse. Double Deceit was written largely in prose but it did contain a number of speeches in rhyming couplets that struck him as superb. Delivered by the masterful Firethorn, their shortcomings were cunningly concealed. Strudwick longed to write such lines for such an actor, even to become a performer himself. It was a more honourable existence than rowing incessantly across the River Thames. Receiving the plaudits of such a delirious auditorium was infinitely better than dragging dead bodies out of dark water.