Edward Marston - The Fair Maid of Bohemia

Mishaps were only minor at first. James Ingram tore a sleeve as he was putting on his costume, George Dart cut his hand while testing the edge of the executioner’s axe and Richard Honeydew broke a string while practising on the lute. Such normal accidents were taken in their stride, as was Barnaby Gill’s last-minute outburst of pique at the way his preference for Cupid’s Folly had been brutally ignored. By the time of the performance, Nicholas had everything and everyone in the tiring-house completely under control once more.

Unfortunately, his supervision did not extend to the audience. From the sounds which they heard seeping through to them, they knew that they were graced by a large and august assembly. There would be no standees here, no common folk straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the action over the heads of the crowd in front of them. Everyone was seated. The usual hubbub of the Queen’s Head was now a subdued murmur. The Corrupt Bargain would be watched with close attention and reverence.

That, at least, was their conviction as they launched the piece on the placid waters of the Archbishop’s Palace. It floated smoothly at first. Owen Elias earned muted applause for the Prologue and Edmund Hoode impressed as a kindly Provost. Honeydew’s first song drew sighs of contentment from the ladies while their husbands wondered if they really were looking at a boy in female attire and studied his anatomy and movement with fascination. Colorful costumes and clever scenic devices gave the drama an added lift. Understandably nervous at first, the company soon found its rhythm.

Then Firethorn made his entrance and there was a gasp of astonishment. The actor put this down to his extraordinary presence on a stage and he hurled himself into his first speech with gusto. Disguised as a friar, the exiled Duke had returned to Genoa to regain power from his duplicitous younger brother, Don Pedro. Firethorn was busily explaining his plan in rhyming couplets when his eye fell on the noble figures seated in the front row. He had no difficulty in identifying the Archbishop of Cologne in his sacerdotal robes, nor could he fail to notice the splendour of the Duke of Bavaria. It was the man who sat between them who caused him to falter.

Not only was the guest wearing a habit identical to that of Firethorn’s, his swarthy complexion and Mediterranean cast of features marked him as an Italian. Bernado of Savona was the Abbot of the Monastery of Saint Peter. Though he spoke no English, he heard his native Genoa mentioned time and again. It persuaded him that Duke Alonso was less of a noble hero than a comic figure who was there primarily to mock him. As the Abbot’s discomfiture grew, consternation spread throughout the audience. The corrupt bargain which they saw was a theatre company in league with the Protestants to subvert the monastic traditions of the Roman Catholic Church.

Once the notion had a hold on the audience, it was very hard to dispel. Firethorn, the putative hero, began to attract glares and hisses. The rest of the company struggled on manfully but the frown remained on the face of Bernado of Savona. Only the inspired clowning of Barnaby Gill brought any relief. His songs amused them and his jigs diverted them, but even he fell foul of a staid gathering when obscene gestures which always won guffaws elsewhere were now met with stony silence. The tiring-house was a place of mourning.

‘They hate us,’ wailed Gill. ‘It is the wrong play.’

‘No!’ insisted Firethorn. ‘It is the right play. We happen to have offered it to the wrong audience.’

‘You have estranged them, Lawrence.’

‘They need a little wooing, that is all.’

‘We are deep into Act Three,’ complained Hoode, ‘and they are still hostile. Clearly, they despise my play.’

‘The Archbishop wrinkled his nose at me,’ said Elias.

‘The Duke of Bavaria yawned during my last song,’ said Gill in a tone of outrage. ‘I blame Lawrence for this.’

‘There is no point in blaming anyone,’ said Nicholas, swiftly interceding. ‘The play must run its course and there is still time to win them over.’

‘Not while my double sits glowering in the front row,’ said Firethorn. ‘He could teach Marwood how to pull faces.’

‘Your appearance offends him.’

‘It has been offending me for years,’ sneered Gill.

‘What can I do, Nick?’ asked Firethorn, ignoring the gibe. ‘Were I the villain, I could understand their dislike of me. But I am the hero, garbed like a holy friar. I am a symbol of all that is good and wholesome. Wherein lies my sin?’

‘Your disguise,’ said Nicholas.

‘It is the only way that Alonso may return to Genoa.’

‘Discard it in the next scene.’

‘But I only reveal myself in the last act.’

‘Do so earlier.’

‘That would ruin my play!’ protested Hoode.

‘No, Edmund,’ said the book-holder. ‘It may rescue it.’

Firethorn was baffled. ‘How do I maintain my disguise?’

‘Wear a hat and a cloak. Hug the corners of the stage. Turn your face away from people who might recognise you. As long as you pose as a friar, The Corrupt Bargain is doomed. Abandon the cowl and show them who you really are.’

‘Madness!’ opined Gill.

‘A betrayal of my work!’ exclaimed Hoode.

‘It may well be both,’ said Firethorn, frantically weighing the implications. ‘But it may also be our only salvation. What is more important? The fate of one paltry drama or the standing of Westfield’s Men?’

‘It is not a paltry drama, Lawrence!’

‘Perform it as written and we sink into further ignominy. Amend the play and we may hang on to our reputation.’ He heard the music which introduced his next scene. ‘It is decided. I am sorry, Edmund. We must all make sacrifices for our art.’

Leaving Hoode in tears, he charged back onstage, to be met by the same wall of antagonism. The Archbishop of Cologne was glaring at him, the Duke of Bavaria was curling his lip and Abbot Bernado looked as if he was about to excommunicate the actor. Firethorn took them all by surprise. Striding to the very edge of the dais, he tore off his cowl to reveal his ducal attire and stood before the audience in his true character. The measured voice of a friar now became the mighty roar of a dispossessed ruler. In the space of one glorious minute, he transformed a room full of grumbling enemies into an appreciative audience. At the end of his speech, it was the Italian Abbot who first put his tentative palms together to applaud.

Not all of the damage could be repaired, and vestigial doubts remained in the minds of the spectators. But the emergence of Duke Alonso into the light of day helped to salvage a great deal. The plot was now clarified, the hero identified and the embattled heroine-the winsome Richard Honeydew-able to reap her full harvest of sympathy as she was confronted with a stark choice between yielding her body to the tyrant or watching her brother die. The Corrupt Bargain was at last allowed to work its spell upon the audience.

Behind the scenes, its author was quite inconsolable.

‘This play has a curse upon it, Nick!’ he moaned.

‘That curse has just been lifted,’ said Nicholas as another round of applause rang out in the hall. ‘Listen to them, Edmund. They are hailing your work.’

‘What they are clapping is a travesty of my play. When Lawrence flung off his disguise, he altered the whole direction of the piece. We have had to improvise in every scene.’

‘With great success.’

‘But at a hideous cost.’

‘Be comforted,’ said Nicholas. ‘It remains a fine play.’

‘Not when it is savaged like this,’ retorted Hoode. ‘I do not know which is worse. Ben Skeat dying in the middle of The Corrupt Bargain or Lawrence Firethorn coming to life as the Duke of Alonso two acts before he is due to do so. The play is bewitched.’