Edward Marston - The Princess of Denmark

The action was swift and the pace never slackened as Firethorn, resplendent in the title role, displayed a whole series of inventions, each one more ambitious than the last. A kind man with a paternal interest in people, the Earl always tried to create something that would bring benefit to one and all. His brain teemed with brilliant ideas but, when he tried to put them into practice, they rarely succeeded because Luke Bungle, his clumsy apprentice, kept putting the wrong ingredients into each experiment or losing the plan of the machine that he was supposed to be building.

As a consequence, the much-vaunted inventions of the Wizard Earl had the opposite effect of the ones intended. When he showed off the machine that controlled weather, he pressed a button to create bright sunshine and brought on a torrential downpour instead. Everyone on stage scampered for cover so convincingly that the audience could almost feel the rain. Pulling a lever to stop the rain, Firethorn inadvertently started a snowstorm. In trying to dispel that, he plunged his whole estate into thick fog and there was sustained hilarity as the actors groped their way blindly around and bumped into each other.

Barnaby Gill excelled as Bungle but it was Firethorn’s play. He was in his element as the genial inventor, ever sanguine, ever ready to attempt something new. The summit of his achievement was a potion that made the taker fall madly in love with the person he or she first saw. Hoode explored all the comic possibilities of the situation. At one point, the Earl had three nubile ladies fighting over him while Bungle, having mistakenly allowed some of the potion to be fed to the animals, aroused the passion of an amorous goat — Owen Elias with horns — and was pursued with unflagging persistence.

The sheer comic verse of The Wizard Earl made it irresistible, and the fact that it was peppered with so much action, mime, dance and special effects meant that it was comprehensible to the audience. Nicholas was pleased with the way that it was received but Anne Hendrik was not able to follow the play. She was too busy behind the scenes, sewing on buttons, mending ripped costumes and repairing hats that had been damaged in one of the many lively stage fights. Two hours sped by in a torrent of laughter and cheering. When the play ended, it gained an even longer ovation than its predecessor.

Firethorn was satisfied. He was back where he belonged at the head of his troupe, the undisputed leading actor who had put the upstart Gill firmly back in his place. After taking the last of several bows, Firethorn led the actors offstage and took the opportunity to get in another sly dig at his sworn foe.

‘Congratulations, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘A fine performance.’

Gill was on his guard. ‘Thank you, Lawrence.’

‘Edmund has finally shaped a role to suit your unique talents as a bungler. You bungled superbly as Bungle.’

‘Stop crowing,’ said Hoode, stepping in to stop another quarrel before it had really started. ‘Both of you served my play well, as did the whole company. I reserve a special word of praise for you, Owen,’ he went on, turning to Elias. ‘Your goat was incomparable.’ There was concerted agreement in the tiring house. ‘The chase after Bungle was one of the triumphs of the afternoon.’

‘It’s in my blood, Edmund,’ said Elias. ‘The Welsh have always had a goatish disposition. We are nought but lechery on four hooves.’ Becoming aware of Anne’s proximity, he bit back the lewd jest that he was about to make. ‘I’ll graze in pastures new,’ he went on. ‘Here’s one goat who seeks the company of a White Hart.’

‘The rest of us will join you there,’ said Nicholas.

‘If they will let us in,’ observed Firethorn. ‘So many people wish to meet us that there’s scarce room enough in the inn. The landlord does well to let us drink at his expense for we have trebled his custom at the White Hart. In deference to the popularity we’ve bestowed upon it, he should call it the Westfield Arms.’

‘Was our patron in the audience today?’ asked Hoode.

‘Alas, no,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He’s keeping vigil at the castle. Lord Westfield says that he is not in a laughing vein at the moment. He prefers to spend time alone.’

Frederick Arbiter, first Baron Westfield pored over the table as he considered his next move. Unable to get near to his princess yet again, he had remained in his apartment and sought to wile away the lonely hours with a game of chess. Rolfe Harling had played against himself on many occasions, losing himself in the contest for hours as he regarded move and counter-move. Lord Westfield lacked his rigid impartiality. Wanting to let the white chessmen win, he favoured them at every turn yet the black somehow retained the upper hand. It was eerie. He had the unsettling feeling that Harling was playing against him from the grave. Eventually, his patience snapped.

‘Enough of this!’ he exclaimed, using an arm to sweep every piece from the board and scatter them across the room. ‘This is no game for me. I want to see Sigbrit.’

Sitting back in his chair, he mused on the cruelty of it all. The woman he loved enough to marry was less than twenty yards from where he sat but she was as unattainable as if she were in another country. Why was she keeping away from him? Had she been so disappointed when they met that she was wallowing in regret at her acceptance of him as a husband? Could it be that Bror Langberg’s excuses for her absence hid the fact that Sigbrit was ill? The thought worried him. During the hour they spent in the hall, she did not have the bloom that he had expected. Was she still unwell? Or was there a more sinister explanation why he was being kept apart from her? It was a time when he most needed Rolfe Harling’s advice but the man was no longer available to serve him.

Lord Westfield was in despair. Taking her portrait from his pocket, he held it in the palm of his hand and scrutinised it. To his eye, Sigbrit was the personification of beauty. Even in miniature, she was a woman in a thousand and a loving impulse made him press his lips to the portrait. When he looked at her again, however, he saw something that suddenly alarmed him and made his brain whirl. What disconcerted him was that he had absolutely no idea what it was.

Before he adjourned to the inn after the others, Nicholas Bracewell took care to see that the scenery and the stage were struck, and that everything was loaded onto the waiting carts. The mayor had provided some constables to stand guard over them so Nicholas felt able to escort Anne to the White Hart. There was a raucous atmosphere in the inn but she felt at ease among so many friends. Surrounded by admirers, Lawrence Firethorn was declaiming one of the speeches from The Wizard Earl . When he saw the newcomers, he broke off.

‘Here’s the real wizard,’ he said. ‘It was Nick who contrived all those bangs and flashes you saw. He’s a genius with gunpowder. And he rehearsed us in every brawl we had on stage. A round of applause, please, for the man who holds us together — and for the lady who kept us so well attired this afternoon.’

Nicholas and Anne acknowledged the clapping then found a corner in which to sit. Neither enjoyed being the centre of attention. They were grateful when it shifted back to Firethorn who lapsed into the role of the Earl once more and sang the comic song that had amused the audience so much.

Anne was interested. ‘Is this what happens at the Queen’s Head after every play?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Nicholas. ‘If it has gone well.’

‘What about the night of the fire?’

‘The performance went rather too well, Anne. It ensnared Will Dunmow completely. He kept asking Lawrence and the others to recite speeches from the play so that he could applaud once more. We always seek recognition of our work but Will went beyond that.’