Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘You were a Trojan to get through the performance today.’

‘A useless one, however,’ said Quilter sadly. ‘But where is Master Firethorn? I expected him to come charging in here like an angry bull to toss me on his horns.’

‘You’ve been spared that.’

‘How?’

‘I told him something of your troubles. Don’t worry,’ he went on quickly, seeing the alarm in Quilter’s face. ‘He can be trusted to say nothing. Master Firethorn deserved to hear the truth. It took all the fury out of him.’

‘That’s some relief at least.’

‘It was wrong to keep it all to yourself, Frank. We share our problems here.’

‘I was too ashamed to share the tidings.’

‘Why? You told me that your father is innocent.’

‘No question of it, Nick.’

‘Then he goes to his death unjustly.’

‘And long before his time,’ said Quilter, wincing at the thought. ‘Father is still in his prime. It’s cruel to cut a man down like that.’ He glanced at the others. ‘But you speak aright. It was folly to keep it secret from my fellows. They’ll know the horrid truth soon enough.’

Nicholas put a consoling hand on his arm. Ingram asked the book holder about the plays to be performed in the coming week and all four of them began to discuss their relative merits. Elias rejoined them to add his pertinent comments. Quilter took a full part in the debate. Enthusing about plays helped to take his mind off his father’s predicament. Nicholas was glad to see the frown vanish from Quilter’s face at last. The actor was an intelligent critic with a persuasive manner. He was caught up in the discussion until The Loyal Subject was mentioned.

‘I do not know the piece,’ he said.

‘It is a wondrous drama,’ announced Dart, eyes widening. ‘One of the best that Master Hoode has ever written. We performed it at Court. Her Majesty thought that The Loyal Subject was magnificent.’

‘Every Queen relies on loyal subjects,’ remarked Ingram.

‘What is so special about the play, George?’ asked Quilter.

‘It is so exciting,’ said Dart. ‘It ends with the most thrilling execution.’

Elias grinned. ‘Why? Is Barnaby Gill beheaded? I’d pay to see that blessing.’

‘So would I,’ added Ingram.

‘The death was so frightening,’ said Dart, ‘that I could not bear to look.’

‘Then you have never seen a real execution, George,’ said Elias. ‘You have never stood at Tyburn or Smithfield, as I have. It is an education. The best way to gauge a man’s true character is to see how he bears himself at the hour of his death. Take the execution of Anne Brewen and John Parker, for instance.’

‘Need we dwell on such things, Owen?’ said Nicholas.

‘I merely wish to show George what he missed.’

‘And was glad to do so,’ said Dart.

‘Anne Brewen and John Parker were lovers, who plotted to murder her husband. John Brewen was a goldsmith, a blameless man whose only crime was to love his wife too much. With the help of her lover, his wife poisoned him and he died in agony. It was only right that the murderers did likewise. Do you know how they died, George?’

Dart shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that I want to.’

‘Anne Brewen was burnt to death while John Parker was hanged before her eyes. I was in the crowd when it happened,’ said Elias, unaware of the effect he was having on Quilter. ‘They were evil killers and deserved their fate. Everyone cheered to the echo when the villains went to their deaths. They were made to suffer .’

Dart gulped, Ingram turned away in disgust and Nicholas flashed a look of disapproval at Owen Elias. But the most dramatic response came from Quilter. As he started to retch aloud, he held a hand over his mouth then leapt up from his seat to dash out of the taproom at full speed. The Welshman was taken aback.

‘What did I say?’ he wondered.

Edmund Hoode hurried through the crowded streets with his mind racing. Others might think that his plays jumped full-grown on to the page, but he knew the truth of the matter. Each new drama made huge demands on him. Days of concentration were needed before he could even force himself to pick up his goose quill, then weeks of hard, unremitting work ensued, during which he invariably lost faith in the project in hand and fell back on extensive revision of the text. Additional changes would be necessary when Lawrence Firethorn read the new play, and Hoode always sought the opinion of Nicholas Bracewell as well. Only when the piece had its premiere at the Queen’s Head could he start to relax, like an exhausted mother who has given birth after an interminable labour. To someone like Hoode, the creative act was a painful and debilitating experience.

What made The Duke of Verona so special was that it was attended by none of the usual problems. There had been no doubts, no uncertainties, no descent into black pessimism. The physical effort of writing had not left him with his habitual pallor and bloodshot eyes. Instead of approaching each session at his table with trepidation, he could not wait to get back to work. The Duke of Verona filled him with an elation he had not known since he secured his first commission from Westfield’s Men. It was a comedy with dark undertones and moments of wild farce. Hoode brought such enthusiasm to the play that it seemed to write itself. He was in the grip of an obsession. It made for difficulties with his fellows because he was always rushing away from them after a performance, but he knew that they would forgive him when they saw the masterpiece that he would shortly deliver. The end justified the means. Edmund Hoode would go to any lengths to finish The Duke of Verona.

As he strolled along, he was rehearsing the next scene in his mind, inventing speeches that would roll off the tongue, and which combined poetry with meaning in the most effective way. So preoccupied was he with the duologue between the Duke and his intended bride that he did not realise that he was being followed at a discreet distance by a well-dressed youth. When he got to his lodgings, Hoode did not toss even a casual glance over his shoulder. He simply went straight into the house, clattered up the stairs and let himself into his room. The Duke of Verona awaited him, scattered across the table on dozens of sheets of parchment, patient, welcoming and inspiring. Hoode did not hesitate. Lowering himself onto his stool, he took up his pen and sharpened it with a knife before dipping it into the inkhorn. The first bold words of the new scene dropped onto the page.

‘Master Hoode!’

He did not even hear his landlady’s voice outside the door.

‘I have a letter for you, sir!’ she called.

When there was no response, she knocked on the door before opening it.

‘Excuse this interruption, Master Hoode,’ she said.

It was only when her shadow fell across his table that he became aware of her presence. Because she was a pleasant and amenable woman, Hoode enjoyed a warm relationship with his landlady. Understanding the nature of his work, she knew that he hated to be disturbed. He was angry that she had done so, all the more since the creative impulse was at its most urgent. Before he could scold her, however, she thrust the letter into his hands and backed away.

‘The young man said that it was very important, sir,’ she explained, ‘or I would not have dared to come into your room like this.’

‘Young man?’ he said.

‘He called a moment ago. You must have heard him knock.’

‘I heard nothing.’

‘But he pounded so hard on my front door.’

‘When I am writing a play, I would not hear the report of a cannon. I thought that you appreciated that. Isolation is vital for a dramatist,’ he said pointedly. ‘I place myself beyond knocks on the door and missives that claim to be important.’