Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

‘What is your secret?’

‘Patience and fortitude.’

‘Heavy demands must have been made on both.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘I have lived to tell the tale.’

The rehearsal of Mirth and Madness was attended by all kinds of errors and delays, as the deficiencies of the stage forced several changes to the text as it was played at the Queen’s Head. But there was no sense of desperation. It was stock play from their repertoire and they knew they could make it work as successfully as it always had done. To his credit, Firethorn led his company with admirable commitment. The loss of his beloved Hector was a blow that left no visible bruises. At the end of the rehearsal, he gave them his routine blast of criticism in order to concentrate their minds. He then retired without any qualms to take refreshment in the inn.

Smallwood remained behind to help Nicholas with last-minute refinements. The two wagons were placed end to end at the rear of the rows of benches to provide additional seating at a raised level. Because there was no charge for admission, it was unnecessary to screen off the open side of the improvised auditorium. Nicholas fully expected customers from the inn and townspeople to converge on them out of curiosity when the performance was under way. He took a final look around.

‘We are all done, Adrian,’ he decided.

‘Thanks to your leadership.’

‘Take your share of the credit. You have worked as hard as any of us and with far less complaint.’

Smallwood beamed. ‘I love this life, Nick.’

‘This tour may put that love under severe strain.’

‘It will not be found wanting,’ vowed the other.

They slipped away for a frugal meal and were soon back in the tiring-house with the rest of the company. Spectators began to pour in and the benches quickly filled. Firethorn felt the need to make an oration to his fellows. Dressed in his costume, he beckoned them close to hear his urgent whisper.

‘Lads,’ he declared, ‘this is a test of your mettle. We perform a trusty old play on a rickety stage in front of an untried audience. Anything may happen and we must be ready to respond to it. The good name of Westfield’s Men must be preserved at all costs. See this afternoon as a chance to try our art on foreign eyes and ears. English soldiers will form the main part of our audience but there may be Dutch, Danish and German spectators out there as well. Include them at all times. Raise your voices. Broaden your gestures. Leave them shaking with mirth at the divine madness of Westfield’s Men.’

They were ready. With no silken flag to hoist above their little playhouse, they used a trumpet fanfare to indicate the start of the play. Lawrence Firethorn stepped out in person to deliver the Prologue and set the tone. His words rang out effortlessly across a hundred yards or so.

‘Mirth and madness are our themes today,

So darker minds must seek another play

To feed their gloom. All’s froth and folly here,

And Comedy itself will oft appear

To grace this Flushing stage and mend a tear

With laughter and with song. And have no fear

That tragedy will come by stealth to turn

Your joy to sighs. Our clownish antics spurn

Life’s miseries and with a Sidney’s skill

Govern your happiness.’

The first laugh was led by Sir Robert Sidney himself, delighted at the way that his name had been worked into the verse. Seated on cushions in one of the wagons, he was accompanied by the erect figure of Balthasar Davey, immaculate as ever and trembling with controlled amusement. A ragged cheer went up from the English soldiers. Firethorn was saddened to see how many of them were wounded but it did not show in his voice. It continued to pound out the lines with exquisite timing until even those who did not understand a word of English were soon laughing.

He quit the stage to applause and passed the book-holder.

‘You were right, Nick.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The ideal play.’

Nicholas had no time to savour the compliment. Mirth and Madness demanded all his attention. It was a rumbustious comedy with many changes of scene and some striking dramatic effects. Deft stage management was required to keep it moving at the requisite pace. Shorn of his usual complement of assistants behind the scenes, he had to take even more responsibility on his own shoulders. George Dart shared the increased burden, but he was taking a series of minor roles in the play and was thus of limited help.

Mirth and Madness was indeed an ideal choice. It was a visual delight from start to finish. Its plot was easy to follow, its comedy rich and varied, its characters engaging companions with whom to spend a sunny afternoon. Jaded soldiers were transported from the cruelties of a war to a world of helpless laughter. Dutch spectators marvelled at the quality of acting, which made their own indigenous travelling players look like floundering amateurs.

Nobody appreciated the performance more than Sir Robert Sidney. Vexed by the cares of office, he had appealed to Queen Elizabeth to relieve him of his duties in Flushing so that he could escape from a conflict which had already robbed him of his revered elder brother. There was a sublime Englishness about the play which allowed the Governor to spend two glorious hours in his own beloved country. Poised and handsome in his high eminence on the wagon, Sir Robert quickly surrendered to the general hilarity.

His approval did not go unnoticed by the members of the cast. Owen Elias came hurtling offstage after another riotous scene and paused beside Nicholas.

‘Sir Robert is laughing his noble head off at us.’

‘He is not the only one, Owen.’

‘I had no idea that he was so young,’ said Elias. ‘He cannot have reached thirty yet. Why has he been deemed worthy of the Governorship at such an age?’

‘His wife is Welsh,’ said Nicholas with a teasing smile. ‘That must have counted mightily in his favour.’

‘Lady Sidney is Welsh? I knew he was a man of taste.’

Invigorated by the news, Elias went out for his next scene with even greater zest. The play was carried along by its own breath-taking momentum now. Lawrence Firethorn plundered his whole armoury of comic effects and gave endless pleasure with his extraordinary facial expressions, Barnaby Gill’s hilarious songs and dances brought even more guffaws, and Edmund Hoode supplied some gentler humour as a parish priest who falls hopelessly in love with an unattainable young milkmaid.

Yet it was Adrian Smallwood who impressed Nicholas the most. The three leading sharers had taken their respective roles many times and had been able to refine their portrayals. Smallwood, by contrast, was making his first appearances in Mirth and Madness . Having mastered his supporting role at short notice, he also accompanied five songs on his lute, took part in three dances and still managed to lend a willing hand to Nicholas behind the scenes. In a selfish profession, Smallwood was a rare example of readiness to serve others.

When the play reached its giddy climax, the audience burst into frenzied applause. Westfield’s Men had given them a priceless entertainment and rescued them from the harsher concerns of resisting Spanish aggression. As Firethorn led out the company to take their bow, the spectators surged forward to congratulate, embrace and cheer them.

Nicholas Bracewell was alone behind the scenes. When a hand closed on his arm, it belonged to no grateful spectator. Instead, he found himself looking up into the anxious face of the landlord. The man gibbered with embarrassment and motioned for Nicholas to follow. They went swiftly upstairs to the chamber which the book-holder shared with Owen Elias, Edmund Hoode and Adrian Smallwood. It had been ransacked. Baggage had been slit open and all their belongings scattered across the floor.