Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

But the play was performed solely for her. Other spectators merely watched from afar. She was engaged from the start. Every gesture was aimed at her, every glance directed her way, every speech laid at her feet in simple homage. Characters came and went with bewildering speed. She saw emperors, kings, soldiers, statesmen, brave knights, bold adventurers and many more besides. Each acted out a story that moved her heart or provoked her laughter, that contained a message for her, that drew her ever closer to the magic of the experience.

And all the parts were played by the same man. He was of solid build and medium height with a fine head and a dark pointed beard. Dazzling apparel changed with each minute as the characters flashed by but his essential quality remained intact throughout. He was Count Orlando about to die, he was Argos of Rome in pensive mood, he was Argos of Florence in hilarious vein, he was here and there to please Matilda in a hundred ways.

Lawrence Firethorn was hers to command.

The next moment she was on the stage beside him, a person in the drama, an anguished young lover greeting the return of her hero from the trials he has undergone on her behalf. She flung herself into his strong arms and lost herself in the power of his embrace. Firethorn’s lips touched hers in a kiss of passion that was quite unlike anything she had ever conceived.

It brought her awake in an instant. Matilda Stanford sat up and looked around. It was early morning but her husband had already risen to begin some work before paying his first visit of the day to church. Matilda was stranded alone on the huge, empty beach of their bed. This was the story of their young marriage but it had never caused her any regret before. One dream had altered that. There was a life elsewhere that made her own seem dull and futile. In her own bed, in her own marriage, in one of the finest private houses in London, she was overcome with such a feeling of sadness and loneliness that it made her shudder all over.

Matilda Stanford wept tears of disenchantment. Night had tempered its kindness with a subtle cruelty. She had lost her way. For the first time since she had married Walter Stanford, she realised that she was unhappy.

Margery Firethorn came into her own on a Sunday and ruled the roost with a brisk religiosity. It was not only her husband, children and servants who were shouted out of bed to attend Matins. The apprentices and the three actors staying at the house in Shoreditch were also dragged protesting from their rooms to give thanks to God. Wearing her best dress and a look of prim respectability that she reserved for the Sabbath alone, she lined up the entire party before they left and admonished them with six lines that she had been forced to learn in her youth.

When that thou come to Church, thy prayers for to say, See thou sleep not, nor yet talk not, devoutly look to pray, Nor cast thine eyes to and fro, as things thou wouldst still see So shall wise men judge you a fool, and wanton for to be. When thou are in the Temple, see thou do thy Churchly works, Hear thou God’s word with diligence, crave pardon for thy faults.

Her instructions met with only moderate obedience when they reached the Parish Church of St Leonard nearby. Prayers were said, attention wandered, tired souls dozed off. During an interminable sermon based on a text from The Acts of the Apostles (‘And the disciples were filled with joy, and with the Holy Ghost’) Margery was the only occupant of her pew to hear God’s word with anything resembling diligence. The actors slept, the apprentices yawned, the servants suffered, the children bickered in silence and Lawrence Firethorn saw only a naked young woman in the pulpit, shorn of her finery and liberated from her escort, beckoning to him to join her atop a Mount Sinai that was set aside for carnal pleasure. That she was also the wife of the Lord Mayor Elect only served to heighten the joyous feeling of sinfulness.

On the journey home, his wife held confession.

‘What were you thinking about in church, sir?’

‘Sacred matters.’

‘I felt that your mind was wandering.’

‘It was on higher things, Margery.’

‘The Sabbath is a day of rest.’

‘Then must you refrain from scolding your husband.’

‘Church is an act of faith.’

He sighed. ‘How else could we endure that sermon?’

The party brightened as soon as they entered the house. Breakfast was devoured with chomping gratitude and some of them came properly awake for the first time that day. Firethorn adjourned to the small drawing room to receive the visitor that he had invited. Edmund Hoode had put on his best doublet and hose and sported a new hat that cascaded down the side of his head. Amorous thoughts of his lady love painted a beatific smile on his willing features. Firethorn rubbed the smile off at once.

‘Stop grinning at me like a raving madman!’

‘I am happy, Lawrence.’

‘That is what is so unnatural. You were born to be miserable, Edmund. Nature shaped you especially for that purpose. Embrace your destiny and return to the doe-eyed sadness for which your friends adore you.’

‘Do not mock me so.’

‘Then do not set yourself up for mockery.’ He waved his guest to a chair and sat beside him. ‘Let us touch on the business of the day.’

Hoode was wounded. ‘I thought you brought me here for the pleasure of my company.’

‘And so I did, sir. Now that I have had it, we can turn to more important things.’ He glanced around to make sure the door was firmly closed. ‘Edmund, dear fellow, I have work for your pen.’

‘I have already written two new plays this year.’

‘Each one a gem of creation,’ flattered the other. ‘But no new commission threatens. I wish you merely to compose some verse for me.’

‘No, Lawrence.’

‘Would you refuse, sir?’

‘Yes, Lawrence!’

‘This is not my Edmund Hoode that speaks.’

‘It is, Lawrence.’

‘I am asking you for help. Do not deny me or I will never call you friend again. I am in earnest here.’

‘So am I.’

‘Write me a sonnet to woo my love.’

‘Call in Margery instead and sing her a ballad.’

‘Are you a lunatic!’ hissed Firethorn. ‘What has got into you, sir? I ask but a favour you have done on more than one occasion. Why betray me in this way?’

‘Because my verse is reserved for another.’

The actor-manager was livid. Rising to his feet, he released a few expletives then let himself get as angry as he dared without arousing the attention of his wife in the adjoining room. Edmund Hoode was unperturbed. A man whom Firethorn could usually manipulate at will was showing iron resolution for once and would not be moved. There was only one way to bring him to heel.

‘Legal process is on my side, Edmund.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your contract with the company.’

‘There is nothing in that to make me act as your pandar and fetch in your game with pretty rhymes.’

‘Will you push me to violence here!’

‘Remember the Sabbath and lead a better life.’

Lawrence Firethorn’s rage was about to burst into full flame when he controlled it. What came crackling from his mouth instead were the terms of Edmund Hoode’s contract with Westfield’s Men, exact in every detail.

‘One, that you shall write for no other company.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Two, that you shall provide three plays a year.’

‘I have honoured that clause.’

‘Three, that you shall receive five pounds for each new drama performed by Westfield’s Men. Four, that you shall publish none of the said plays. Five, that you will receive a weekly wage of nine shillings together with a share of any profit made by the company.’