Edward Marston - The Queens Head

' Aouw!'

'That will cool you down, Dicky!' sneered John Tallis.

'Don't tell on us,' threatened Stephen Judd. 'Or it won't be water next time.'

'Unless its our own!' added Tallis with a snigger.

The two boys scuttled away and left Richard shivering with fright. As he came back from the privy, they had drenched him with a bucket of water. His blond hair was plastered to his head, his shirt was soaked and he was dripping all over the floor. It was as much as he could do to hold back tears.

Richard Honeydew was only eleven. He was small, thin and had the kind of exaggerated prettiness that made him an ideal choice for a female role. John Tallis and Stephen Judd were older, bigger, stronger and much more well — versed in the techniques of persecution. Hitherto, however, Richard had been fairly safe at a rehearsal because Nicholas Bracewell was usually on hand to take care of him. The book holder was his one real friend in the company and it was he who made life tolerable for the boy.

The apprentice's first instinct was to run straight to Nicholas but the warning from Stephen Judd still rang in his ears. He decided to clean himself up and say nothing. At the back of the tiring-house was a room that was used partly for storage and partly as a rest area where actors could sit out lengthy waits during a performance. Richard trotted along there and he was relieved to Find it empty. Pulling off his shirt, he grabbed a piece of hessian and used it to dry his hair and body.

He did not hear Barnaby Gill. The actor stood in the doorway and marvelled at the pale torso with its delicate tracery of blue veins across the chest. There was something so natural and beautiful about the scene that his heart took flame. Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him and caused Richard to spin around in alarm.

'Oh, it's you, Master Gill.'

'Don't be afeard, Dick. I won't harm you.'

'I was just drying myself.'

‘I saw.’

Innocence is its own protection. As the actor moved stealthily towards him, Richard had no understanding of the danger he faced. He continued to work away with the hessian.

'That's too rough,' observed Gill. 'You need something softer for a body such as yours.'

'I've finished now.'

'But your breeches are wet as well. Slip them down and dry yourself properly.' As Richard hesitated, his voice coaxed on. 'Nobody will see you. Come, take them down. I'll help to rub you.'

The boy was still reluctant but he was at a disadvantage. Barnaby Gill was a leading member of the company with an influence upon its composition. He was not someone to antagonize. Besides, he had always been kind and considerate. Richard recalled gibes made about Gill by the other boys but he still could not fathom their meaning. As the avuncular smile got closer to him, he was ready to submit trustingly to the actor's touch. But it never came. Even as Gill reached out for him, the door opened and a voice spoke.

'Ah, there you are, Dick!'

'Hello, Master Ruff.'

'What do you want?' growled Barnaby Gill.

'I was looking for the lad,' explained the hired man easily. 'Come, Dick. The best place for you is out in the hot sun. The yard is an Italian piazza today. We'll hang you up to dry with the washing.'

Before Gill could stop him, Samuel Ruff whisked up the shirr and led the boy out of the room. The sharer was left to fume alone. He reached for the hessian which Richard had used and he caressed its surface for a few seconds. Then he threw it violently aside and stalked back into the tiring-house.

Ruff, meanwhile, had taken the boy into the yard to watch some of the rehearsal. Without quite knowing how, Richard had the feeling that he had just been rescued.

'If that ever happens again,' said Ruff, 'you tell me.' Richard nodded happily. He had found a new friend.

Patriotism is a powerful drug. In the wake of the victory against the Armada, it affected almost everyone. There was a surge of self-confidence and a thrill of pride that coursed through the veins of the entire nation. Master Roger Bartholomew also felt the insistent throb of patriotic impulse. He imbibed the details of the Spanish defeat, he listened to the sermons preached at St Paul's Cross and he attended many services of thanksgiving. In the faces all round him, he saw a new spirit, a greater buoyancy, a permissible arrogance. People were conscious as never before of the immense significance of being English.

The drug helped Bartholomew to forget all about his earlier setbacks and vows. Inspiration made him reach for his pen and a play seemed to fall ready-made from his fertile brain. It was a celebration of England's finest hour and it contained speeches which, he believed, in all modesty, would thunder down the centuries. The verse bounded from the page, the characters were moulded to stake their claim to immortality.

As he blotted the last line and sat back in his chair, Bartholomew allowed himself a smirk of congratulation. His first play was juvenilia. With An Enemy Routed, he had come of age in the most signal way. The success of the piece would wipe away any lingering memories of his disappointment and disillusion. Only one problem remained. Master Roger Bartholomew had to make the crucial decision as to which dramatic company he would favour with his masterpiece. He luxuriated in the possibilities.

Two weeks wrought many changes among Lord Westfield's Men. As soon as Will Fowler's funeral was over, the general gloom began to lift. Samuel Ruff was an able deputy for his friend and, in spite of occasional remarks about leaving for Norwich soon, he settled in very well. Richard Honeydew was glad to have someone else to look out for him and he revelled in the fatherly concern that the hired man showed him. Lawrence Firethorn moved about in a cloud of ecstasy. Each day, he was convinced, brought him closer to the promised tryst with Lady Rosamund Varley; each performance gave him a fresh opportunity to woo her from the stage. Barnaby Gill's acid comments on the romance were largely unheard and totally unregarded. The company was grateful to the lady. When Firethorn was in love, everyone stood to gain.

The punishing round of the book holder's life gave Nicholas Bracewell less time than he would have wished to pursue his investigation of Will Fowler's murder, but his resolve did not slacken. After a fortnight, the casual brutality of it all still rattled him. Time after time, he went over the events that had taken place at the Hope and Anchor that night.

'And Redbeard was carrying a bottle in his hand?'

'Yes, Nick,' said Samuel Ruff.

'You're sure of that?'

'Completely. When he got close, I could smell the ale on his breath. The man had taken too much and could not hold his drink.'

'Then what happened?'

Ruff had been through the details a score of times but he did not complain. He was just as committed to finding the man who had murdered his old friend.

'Redbeard lurched against the settle on which Will was sitting and pushed it a good foot backwards. Some of his ale was spilled over Will.'

'So he took exception?'

'The row flared up in a matter of seconds, Nicholas.'

The book holder sighed. Will Fowler's short temper had caught up with him at last. Nicholas saw the familiar image of his friend, roused in argument, eyes blazing, cheeks aglow, voice howling and brawny arms ready to exact stern punishment. When he was in such a choleric mood, Will Fowler could not easily be calmed down. It had taken a cunning thrust from a sword to bleed all the rage out of him.

'I will never forgive myself,' said Ruff sadly.

'You tried to protect him.'

'I gave that ruffian his chance,' admitted the other. 'I would rather he had run me through than dear Will!'

'In some ways, I think he did,' observed Nicholas.