Edward Marston - The Malevolent Comedy

‘I take no orders from you, Master Hibbert.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Marwood, emboldened by the presence of Nicholas. ‘Settle your bill or I must ask you to quit your room.’

‘I’d have more comfort in a pig sty,’ returned Hibbert with a sneer. ‘Now keep out of my way, you apparition, or you’ll live to regret it.’ He pointed to Nicholas. ‘Badger this fellow in my stead. He’ll tell you who and what I am. Nick will solve this petty business in a trice.’

‘Why should I do that?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Because I tell you.’

Saul Hibbert turned on his heel and strode off towards the door to the taproom. Nicholas contained his anger. Upset by the playwright’s cavalier attitude towards him, he resolved to take it up with Hibbert at a latter date. Meanwhile, he had to placate Alexander Marwood, a task he had been forced to undertake many times on behalf of the company.

‘Master Hibbert treats me like a cur,’ wailed the landlord.

‘His manner is indeed unfortunate.’

‘He has brought nothing but trouble since he has been here. If I am not showing a tailor up to his room, I am telling a succession of women — I dare not call them ladies — where they might find him. It’s more than a decent Christian like me can stand.’

‘If he has rented a room, he can surely entertain friends there.’

‘That depends on how he entertains them,’ said Marwood, darkly. ‘When she happened to be passing his chamber last night, my wife heard sounds that brought a blush to her cheek.’

Nicholas doubted very much if Sybil Marwood had passed the room by accident. Knowing the landlady of old, he suspected that she had an ear glued to Saul Hibbert’s door every time he had female company. Marwood’s wife was a flinty harridan, a formidable creature of blood and stone, who had never blushed in her life. Politeness, however, required Nicholas to show a degree of sympathy for her.

‘I’m sorry that your wife has suffered embarrassment,’ he said.

‘She was too ashamed to give me the full details.’

‘I’m surprised that either of you is shocked, however. This is an inn, after all, not a church. You must surely be accustomed to the sound of your guests taking their pleasures in private.’

Marwood gave a visible shudder and the twitch abandoned his nose to move to his right eyebrow, making it flutter wildly like a moth caught in a cobweb. The landlord had not enjoyed any pleasure with his wife since the night their only child had been conceived, a fact that accounted for his deep melancholy. Deprived of any fleshly enjoyment himself, he begrudged it to others. Those with obvious sexual charm, like Saul Hibbert, earned his particular rancour.

‘The man should be gelded,’ he argued.

‘From what you tell me,’ said Nicholas, ‘that would cause upset to number of ladies, and would, in any case, be too harsh a penalty for someone who has not paid his bill. How much does he owe?’

‘Five shillings.’

‘A paltry amount to Master Hibbert.’

‘Then why does he not hand it over?’

‘He will,’ promised Nicholas, ‘when I speak to him. He can well afford it. Master Hibbert was paid handsomely for his new play.’

‘That is another thing. I do not like the title.’

‘Why? What is wrong with The Malevolent Comedy ?’

‘It unsettles me.’

‘It may come to reassure you.’

‘In what way?’

‘Audiences have been thin of late,’ said Nicholas, sadly, ‘because we’ve been guilty of putting on meagre fare. Our gatherers took less money at performances while you sold far less beer and food.’

‘It was a matter I meant to take up with you, Master Bracewell.’

‘Our new play may put everything right.’

‘I am more worried about the new playwright.’

‘Give him time to settle in. He is still something of a novice and needs to learn his place. I’ll endeavour to instruct him.’

‘Make him treat me with respect,’ said Marwood. ‘When he talks to my wife, he is all smiles and flattery. I get nought but insults and threats from him. And ask him to change the title of his play.’

‘It is too late to do that. Playbills have already been printed.’

‘Then I fear for the safety of my inn.’

‘You need have no qualms,’ Nicholas told him. ‘You have my word that this is one of the most cunning and spirited comedies we have ever staged here. It will fill the yard time and again.’

‘You said that about The Misfortunes of Marriage .’

‘Another work that was touched with genius.’

‘And what happened to its author, Master Applegarth?’ asked the landlord, ruefully. ‘He was murdered at the Queen’s Head under our very noses. Think of the trouble that caused me.’

‘We all suffered together.’

‘It drove me to despair, Master Bracewell.’

‘Jonas Applegarth did not get himself hanged in order to torment you ,’ said Nicholas, sharply. ‘It was a most cruel way to die and we should mourn him accordingly.’

‘I mourn the damage that it did to the reputation of my inn.’

‘The Queen’s Head survived.’

‘But for how long?’ demanded Marwood, anxiously. ‘Master Applegarth was a load of mischief from the start and this prancing peacock, Saul Hibbert, is cut from the same cloth. He is dangerous. I feel it in my water. Your clever playwright is a harbinger of disaster.’

‘I’ll take pains to ensure that he’s not hanged on your property,’ said Nicholas with light sarcasm.

‘Do not jest about it, Master Bracewell. If he continues to put on airs and graces at the Queen’s Head, your Master Hibbert may well finish up at the end of a rope,’ said the landlord, ‘and I’ll be the hangman!’

George Dart had always been the lowliest member of the company in every sense, a diminutive figure, toiling manfully in the background as an assistant stagekeeper, while those with more talent, more presence and more confidence received all the plaudits. Dart accepted his role as the whipping boy for Westfield’s Men with resignation, never expecting to shed it. The arrival of Hal Bridger, however, transformed his existence. Dart was no longer the most junior person in the troupe. Tall, gangly and hopelessly innocent, Bridger was a fair-haired youth whose passion for the theatre was not matched by a shred of histrionic skill. Unable to tread the boards with any style himself, he wanted nothing more than to serve those who could, worshipping actors such as Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill as if they were minor gods.

George Dart finally had someone beneath him, a gullible lad who deflected the mockery away from its usual target. It was Hal Bridger who was now teased, shouted at, sent hither and thither, scorned, ridiculed and given all the most menial jobs. Dart was his friend and advisor. When he saw Thomas Skillen, the irascible old stagekeeper, box the newcomer’s ears, he took his young friend aside.

‘Remember to duck, Hal.’

‘Duck?’

‘Whenever he tries to hit you,’ explained Dart. ‘Thomas’s back is so stiff that he cannot bend. Duck under his hand and he’ll not be able to touch you. Life will be much less painful that way.’

‘Thank you, George.’

‘I should be thanking you. Since you joined the company, Thomas no longer turns his fury on me. It’s aimed at you now.’

‘Only because I deserve it.’

Hal Bridger gave a toothy grin. To be part of such an illustrious theatrical enterprise, he was very willing to endure daily beatings and constant verbal abuse. To be yelled at by Lawrence Firethorn was, to him, a signal honour. At the same time, he did not wish to jeopardise his position by failing in his duties. Guided by Nicholas Bracewell, and helped by Dart, he had become an efficient servant to the company. Bridger had been rewarded with what he saw as the ultimate accolade.