Edward Marston - The Roaring Boy

The Welshman eventually came back to the play itself.

‘Let us be honest, Nick,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘ The Corrupt Bargain was not his best play.’

‘It was serviceable enough.’

‘Too much matter, too little poetry.’

‘You are a stern critic, Owen. I liked it.’

‘Why, so did I. But less than his other plays.’

‘It merely needed more work on it,’ said Nicholas.

‘New title, new characters, new plot.’ Elias grinned. ‘Its defects would soon be mended then. It lacked vigour.’

Edmund Hoode murmured his way into the conversation.

‘It lacked everything that bears the name of drama.’

‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ said Elias. ‘Nick and I were just passing judgement on-’

‘I heard,’ interrupted Hoode. ‘Heard and suffered every word that passed between you.’

‘Your play had much merit,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then it was put there by other hands,’ confessed the author gloomily. ‘Owen was right. It is a time for honesty and honesty compels me to admit that The Corrupt Bargain was my worst piece of work. The characters were stiff, the plot would not bend to my purpose, the verse would not soar from the page. My art is moribund, gentlemen. That is why I am so oppressed. I have lost my creative spark.’

‘That is not true, Edmund, said Nicholas loyally. ‘ The Corrupt Bargain bore all the marks of your talent, but it had no chance to display them in that performance. The finest drama ever penned will not yield up its true essence if it loses its hero in the middle of Act Three.’

‘Ben’s death was your misfortune,’ said Elias.

‘No,’ said Hoode. ‘It was an apt comment on my play. Ben Skeat went to his grave to escape the ignominy of being in such a lame and undeserving tragedy.’

‘The rest of us lived to enjoy it,’ noted Elias.

‘Enjoy!’ Edmund Hoode gave a hollow laugh. ‘ Enjoy! ’

Nicholas Bracewell traded a glance with Owen Elias and the latter rose gratefully to take his leave. The Welshman had tried and failed to raise the spirits of the company’s actor-playwright. A more delicate hand was needed and only the book holder could supply that. Elias took his ale off to a more boisterous table and was soon joining in the raucous badinage. Nicholas leaned in closer to his companion.

‘Take heart, Edmund. You have had setbacks before.’

‘This was no setback, Nick. It was a catastrophe.’

‘Not of your making.’

‘ The Corrupt Bargain was a sign.’

‘Of what?’

‘His end.’

‘Whose end?’

‘That impostor.’

‘You talk in riddles.’

‘That cheat, that counterfeit, that mountebank.’

‘Who?’

‘Edmund Hoode, poet.’

‘He sits before me even now.’

‘I am merely his ghost.’

‘This is foolish talk.’

‘No, Nick,’ said Hoode with solemn assurance. ‘It is a wisdom born of cruel experience. Ben Skeat was not the only poor wretch who died upon that stage this afternoon. I did as well. My art finally expired. Give it a decent burial, then find another poet to fashion your new plays.’

‘We already have the best in London,’ said Nicholas.

‘Kind words will not conceal the ugly truth.’

‘We need you, Edmund.’

Hoode shook his head. ‘I have nothing left to give.’

‘That is arrant nonsense!’

Nicholas did what he could to lift his friend’s morale but it was all to no avail. What made his task more difficult was the fact that there were distinct elements of truth in what Hoode had been saying. The Corrupt Bargain fell far short of his best work. Its construction was faulty, its pace uncertain and its promising theme not fully explored. Given a rousing performance-and with Lawrence Firethorn as the exiled Duke of Genoa-the play would have passed muster but not even its greatest admirers would wish to see it given a regular place in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men.

While heaping lavish praise on the poet, and struggling to keep a positive note in his voice, Nicholas was all too conscious of the recent deterioration in the latter’s work. Edmund Hoode was contracted to write three new plays for the company each year. The Corrupt Bargain was the last, and least impressive, of his annual trio but its two predecessors had also been disappointing works, competent rather than inspiring, and wholly deficient in those flashes of brilliance for which the playwright was so renowned.

‘The Muse has deserted me, Nick,’ concluded Hoode.

‘Not so.’

‘When did I last create anything of consequence?’

‘With this afternoon’s play.’

‘Shallow stuff. Poorly put together.’

‘You heard the spectators. They acclaimed you.’

‘They acclaimed my fellows for replacing the vile scenes that I gave them with more worthy material of their own. That is what hurt me most. That crude and disfigured version of The Corrupt Bargain was better than my original.’

‘Never!’

‘It was, Nick. I am done.’

‘You have still dozens of fine plays left in you.’

‘No, let us not delude ourselves.’ He put a hand on his companion’s arm. ‘You know the hideous truth as well as I do, dear friend. My last work of any real quality was The Merchant of Calais and that owed much to your help and encouragement. You gave me both plot and theme.’

Nicholas winced slightly. He had also helped to draw the character of the play’s eponymous hero, a merchant from the West Country who bore a closer resemblance to his own father than he had either wished or intended. The Merchant of Calais had been a triumph for its author but it carried some rather uncomfortable memories for Nicholas Bracewell. It made him anxious to change the subject.

‘No more of that,’ he said. ‘Sleep is the only true physician here, Edmund. Go home and rest your troubled head. The case will be altered in the morning. A spent man may go to bed this evening but a gifted poet will rise from it.’

Hoode was about to contradict him when an outburst of laughter took their attention to the far end of a taproom. A group that included Owen Elias was clustered around a young man and guffawing appreciatively as he told them a tale. The stranger was young, well favoured and attired like a gallant in doublet and hose of a subtle red hue. His hat was set at a rakish angle and his cloak was thrown back to reveal its silken lining. He mimed the drawing of a dagger and stabbed the air dramatically to produce fresh mirth from his audience.

‘Who is he?’ asked Hoode.

‘A roisterer, by the look of him,’ said Nicholas. ‘He seems to have fallen in very easily with our fellows.’

‘There is something of an actor about him.’

‘And rather more of a swaggerer. Every hostelry in London is plagued by such roaring boys. Drunk with ale and the sound of their own voices. Friends of all the world on a moment’s acquaintance, ready to dupe and cozen when occasion serve.’ Nicholas watched the way the stranger slipped his arms familiarly around two of the group. ‘He will pick no fruit from that tree. Owen and the others are too sharp to be gulled by a smooth-faced knave like that.’

‘He is a noisy devil,’ complained Hoode. ‘My ears begin to ache with the very sound of his voice and their jollity.’

‘Take yourself home to bed,’ said the other.

‘Sound advice.’ He stood up and swayed violently. ‘My head obeys you but my legs rebel.’

‘You took more ale than you thought,’ said Nicholas with an indulgent smile, getting up to support his friend. ‘Come, Edmund. I’ll bestow you at your lodging before I make my way to Shoreditch and give my account of this afternoon’s escapade to Master Firethorn.’