Edward Marston - The Queens Head

'We'll soon sort this out,' she promised.

'Dick is never late as a rule.'

'There has to be an explanation.'

Having reached the first landing, she went along to another small flight of stairs. When Richard Honeydew had first moved in, he had slept in the same room as the other apprentices and suffered nightly torments. Margery had moved him up to an attic room on his own, and it was to this that she now hurried.

'Dicky!'

She flung open the door but the room was empty.

'Dicky!' she called again.

'Where can he be, mistress?'

'Not here, as you see. Dicky!'

Her third shout produced a response. There was a muffled thumping from somewhere nearby. Dart's elfin face puckered.

'Did you hear that?'

'Listen!'

'There was a-'

' Shhhh!'

They waited in silence until more thumping came. Margery went out into the passageway and soon tracked it down. There was a small cupboard under the eaves and its rough wooden door was vibrating with each sound. George Dart was terrified but Margery plunged on, seizing the handle and throwing open the door with a flourish.

'Dick!' she cried.

'God in heaven!' exclaimed the stagekeeper.

Richard Honeydew was not able to answer them. Completely naked, he was lying bound and gagged on the bedding that was stored in the cupboard. His eyes were pools of horror and his cheeks were puce with embarrassment. Both his heels were bruised from their contact with the timber.

Margery Firethorn plucked him to her bosom and held him in a maternal embrace. As her mind began to devise a punishment for this latest prank of the other apprentices, something else flitted across it to make her catch her breath. What if Barnaby Gill had been the one to find him?

Alexander Marwood was unrepentant. As landlord of a busy inn, he had countless duties to attend to and he was always working under intense pressure, not to mention the dictates of a nagging spouse. He saw it as no part of his job to be tactful in passing on bad news. When Susan Fowler came to him, he simply delivered a plain message in a plain way.

'What was wrong with that?' he asked.

'Common decency should tell you,' replied Nicholas.

'The man's dead, isn't he? No helping that.'

'Perhaps not but there's a way of helping his widow.'

'I told her the truth.'

'You hit her with it.'

'Who says so?'

'I do,' accused Nicholas.

Marwood's face was in its usual state of wrinkled anxiety bin there was no hint of apology in its folds and twitches. It was useless to take him to task about the way that he had met Susan Fowler's enquiry. Here was a man who gravitated towards misery and positively rejoiced in being the bearer of bad tidings.

After a final word of reproach, Nicholas Bracewell turned on his heel and walked across the taproom. He did not get very far. A familiar Figure was obstructing his path.

Good morning, Master Bartholomew.'

'Hello, Nicholas.'

'I did not think to see you at The Queen's Head again.' 'Times have changed.' admitted the poet. 'I have a favour to ask of you. I know that you will oblige me.'

'I will do my best, sir.'

Roger Bartholomew pulled out the manuscript that was tucked under his arm. He handled it with the reverence that is only accorded to holy writ. Pride and pain jostled for supremacy in his expression and Nicholas could see just how much effort it had cost him to return to the scene of his earlier dejection. The young scholar inhaled deeply before blurting out his request.

'I wanted you to show this to Master Firethorn.'

'A new play?'

'It is a vast improvement upon the last one.'

'Even so.'

'If you could persuade him to read it, I'm sure that he will discern its quality.'

'We are not looking for a new play at the moment.'

'You will be unable to refuse An Enemy Routed?

'But we do not purchase much new work,' explained Nicholas. 'Most of our pieces come from stock. Westfield's Men only stage six or seven new plays a year.'

'Ask him to read it,' urged Bartholomew, handing the precious manuscript to him. 'It tells of the Spanish Armada.'

'Ah.'

'It is a celebration of a supreme achievement.'

'That may be so, Master Bartholomew, but…' Nicholas searched for a way to let him down lightly. 'It is a popular subject these days. Many authors have been inspired to write dramas that deal with our triumphs at sea. As it happens, Edmund Hoode is writing a play for us on that selfsame theme.'

'Mine is the better,' asserted Bartholomew.

'Possibly, sir, but Gloriana Triumphant has been contracted.'

'It has a base title.'

'Have you thought of offering your play to another company?

'I bring it to you first.' 'It may get a fairer hearing elsewhere.'

'The leading role was written with Lawrence Firethorn in mind,' said the poet. 'It's the part of a lifetime for him.'

'Why not try the Queen's Men?' suggested Nicholas. 'They commission more new plays than we can afford. So do Worcester's. Of course, the most appropriate company would be the Admiral Men.'

Roger Bartholomew's face fell. He had learned much about Greek, Latin, Poesy and Rhetoric at Oxford but nothing whatsoever about the art of dissembling. His countenance was open book in which Nicholas read the pathetic truth. An Enemy Routed had been taken around every dramatic company in London Far and rejected by them all, including the children's companies. Far from being at the top of the list, Westfield's Men were essentially a last resort, a final, desperate bid by a young poet with a burning conviction of the merit of his work.

Nicholas knew that there was not even the slightest possibility that the company would take the play, but he had too much compassion to crush the author's hopes there and then. 'I will see what I can do, Master Bartholomew.' 'Thank you, thank you!' 'I make no promises, mark you.' 'I understand that. Just put my work into his hand.' 'It may be some little while before he reads it.' 'I can wait.'

Bartholomew squeezed his arm in gratitude then headed quickly for the exit. Nicholas glanced down at the manuscript and saw the list of dramatis personae. Those names alone told him that the piece was unactable in its present form. It might be a kindness to protect the author from the kind of searing comments that Firethorn was likely to offer, but Nicholas had given his word and he would hold to it.

He went through into the yard to make sure that everything was in order for the morning rehearsal. The stagekeepers broke off from their chat when they saw him and busied themselves at once. Samuel Ruff was talking in a corner to Benjamin Creech, another of the hired men. Nicholas waved Ruff over to him. Since his visit from Susan Fowler, he had had no chance to speak to the other alone. When he described what had happened, Ruff was as amazed as he had been. There was a tide of regret in his voice. Will Fowler married? I can't believe it.'

'Neither could I.'

‘He said nothing.'

Not even a hint between old friends?'

'No,' replied Ruff. 'And we drifted apart for so long. Will Fowler! I'd never have thought him serious-minded enough to take a wife. And such a young, untried girl at that.

'It has been an ordeal for her.' 'Is she still at your lodging, Nick?'

'She travels back to St Albans today,' explained the other. 'Susan is in good hands. A close friend of mine will see her safely on her journey.'

Anne Hendrik had treated the girl like a daughter and helped her through the first difficult days of mourning. A widow herself she knew at first hand the deep pain and the numbing sense of loss that Susan felt, though she could only guess at how much worse it must be to have a husband violently cut down in a brawl Nicholas had been touched to see how Anne had opened her heart to their young guest and it had deepened his affection for his landlady. Susan's visit had also given him paternal feelings that surprised him.