Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘I have already done so.’

‘Good. But what does the day hold for you?’

‘First, I’ll share a breakfast with a certain Frank Quilter.’

‘No, Nick. I’ll not stir from here until Cyril Paramore’s ship docks.’

‘You cannot wait on an empty stomach,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Come, there are ordinaries aplenty in Thames Street. We’ll choose one that is but a stone’s throw away.’

‘Well, if you wish,’ said Quilter with reluctant acquiescence. ‘But I’ll want to be back here at my post before long.’

‘So you shall, I promise you. I must away to the Queen’s Head.’

‘What play do you stage this afternoon?’

‘ Love’s Sacrifice .’

‘The work of Edmund Hoode, is it not?’

‘None other, Frank. The title is one that pertains closely to its author.’

‘In what way?’

‘When you know Edmund better, you will understand. No man has made sacrifices to love so often and so recklessly. He still bears the scars. My fear is that another sacrifice is in the wind.’ He put an arm on Quilter’s shoulder. ‘Let’s away.’

‘What’s this about another sacrifice?’

‘The signs are all too evident.’

‘I thought that Edmund was absorbed with his new play.’

‘So did we all,’ said Nicholas, ‘but his behaviour tells another tale. I’ll talk to you about Edmund while we eat. He is truly a martyr to Dan Cupid.’

‘Oh, treason of the blood! This news will kill us all!’

Lawrence Firethorn was so furious that the veins stood out on his forehead like whipcord and his cheeks turned a fiery red. It seemed as if flames would shoot out from his nostrils at any minute. Stamping a foot, he waved both arms wildly in the air.

‘This is rank lunacy, Edmund!’ he yelled.

‘It is a considered decision,’ replied Hoode.

‘I see no consideration of me, or of the company, or of our patron. All that I see is an act of gross betrayal. Where is your sense of loyalty, man?’

‘It lies exhausted.’

‘I’ll not believe what I am hearing!’

‘You hear the plain truth, Lawrence.’

‘Then it is not Edmund Hoode that speaks to me,’ said Firethorn. ‘It is some sprite, some devil, some cunning counterfeit, sent here in his place to vex and torment us. You may look like the fellow we know and revere, but you do not sound like him.’

Hoode smiled serenely. ‘I am in love,’ he announced.

‘Heaven preserve us! Now you do sound like Edmund.’

They were at the Queen’s Head and Firethorn’s voice was booming around the inn yard, disturbing the horses in the stables, waking any travellers still abed in the hostelry and keeping other members of the company at bay. When their manager was in a temper, sharers and hired men alike tried to stay well out of his way. Barnaby Gill had no such trepidation. Attired with his usual flamboyance, he rode into the yard and he saw what appeared to be the familiar sight of Firethorn in full flow as he upbraided Hoode for some minor solecism. He dismounted, handed the reins to George Dart and strode across to the two men without realising the gravity of the situation. Doffing his hat, Gill gave them a mocking bow.

‘Good morrow, gentleman,’ he said. ‘At each other’s throats so soon?’

Firethorn glowered. ‘It is all I can do to hold back from slitting Edmund’s.’

‘Are you still jealous because he outshone you in Mirth and Madness ?’

‘No, Barnaby. I was the first to acknowledge his superiority in the play. But, having helped to save us on one day, he threatens us with extinction on the next.’

‘You exaggerate, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘Let Barnaby be the judge of that,’ retorted Firethorn, turning to the newcomer. ‘Edmund has been slaving for weeks at his new play and was so enamoured of it that he pronounced it the finest piece he had ever written. It is all but finished, Barnaby, yet he has put down his pen and resolved never to take it up again in our name.’

‘But he must,’ said Gill sharply. ‘Edmund has a contract with us.’

‘Contracts can be revoked,’ argued Hoode.

‘I’ll hear no talk of revocation,’ growled Firethorn. ‘By heavens, Edmund, you’ll finish that accursed play if I have to stand over you with a sword and dagger.’

‘I’ll not be moved, Lawrence.’

‘Can you be serious?’ demanded Gill, seeing the implications.

‘The decision has already been made, Barnaby.’

‘Without even consulting your fellows?’

‘It was the only way.’

‘Are you saying that you’ll never write a play for us again?’

‘That yoke has finally been lifted from my shoulders.’

Gill blenched. ‘But your work — along with my own, of course — is one of the crowning glories of Westfield’s Men.’

‘You waste your breath in praising him, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’ve told him a dozen times how much we rely on his genius and he shrugs the compliment off as if it were without meaning.’

‘It is now, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘I need no compliments from you.’

‘You cannot simply walk out on the company.’

‘I understand that and I will honour some of my obligations. It would be wrong to do otherwise. Count on me to take my role in Love’s Sacrifice this afternoon, and in every play we stage from now until the end of next month. That will give you time to seek a replacement for Edmund Hoode.’

‘There is no replacement for you!’ howled Firethorn.

‘I agree,’ said Gill. ‘Lose you and we lose the best of our drama.’

Hoode was magnanimous. ‘I bequeath you all my plays.’

‘We need you to write new ones, Edmund. Novelty is ever in request. As one piece drops out of fashion, we must have fresh material at hand.’

‘London is full of eager playwrights.’

‘Eager for success, perhaps,’ said Firethorn, ‘yet lacking the talent to achieve it. We’ve plenty of authors who can write one, even two, plays of merit but there it stops. No dramatist has your scope and endurance, Edmund. Will you take it from us?’

‘Forever.’

‘But why ?’ asked Gill in dismay.

Firethorn was sour. ‘Can’t you guess, Barnaby?’

‘Surely not a mere woman ?’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Hoode proudly. ‘She is much more than that.’

‘You would put a female before the future of the company?’ said Gill with utter disgust. ‘I abhor the whole gender. I cannot understand why any man should let a woman near him. To squander an occupation at the request of one of those undeserving creatures beggars belief. You are bewitched, Edmund.’

‘I am, I am, Barnaby. And happily so.’

‘Then you’d do well to remember what happens to witches.’

‘Well-spoken,’ said Firethorn, taking over once more. ‘Barnaby gives us a timely reminder. Yesterday, at Smithfield, a foul witch was burnt at the stake. Had the decision been in my hands, Edmund, this sorceress of yours would have burnt beside her.’

‘She is no sorceress,’ said Hoode. ‘She has ethereal qualities.’

‘Well, they are not in demand among Westfield’s Men.’

‘I am sorry to leave you, Lawrence, but I go to a better life.’

‘How can you say that when you are taking a leap into the unknown?’

‘I take it without the slightest hesitation.’

‘For whom?’ asked Gill. ‘Does this enchantress have a name?’

‘She does, Barnaby. She is Mistress Avice Radley.’

‘How long has this foolish romance simmered? A fortnight? A month? A year?’

‘Two days.’

‘Two days!’ echoed Gill in disbelief.

‘The most wonderful two days of my life.’

‘And the worst of ours, it seems,’ added Firethorn. ‘Would you really turn your back on us for the sake of a woman you have known but two days? Merciful heaven! You could not even learn to fondle her paps properly in so short a time, let alone get to know the rest of her body with requisite thoroughness. It takes at least a decade to understand a woman’s true character. I learn new things about Margery every day.’