Edward Marston - The Queens Head

^' Do you know where the girl lives?' asked Ruff. 'Why?'

'I would like to know. One day, I might just find myself in that part of the country. If I stay in this verminous profession, anything can happen.' A grim smile brushed his lips. 'The truth is that I'm curious to meet her. Anyone who can take Will Fowler as a husband must have rare qualities.'

'Oh, she does.'

'He was not the easiest man to live with.'

'No. Did Will ever talk to you about his faith?'

'Only to curse it now and again in his cups.'

'He was of the Church of Rome.'

'What!' Ruff was thunderstruck. 'That is impossible.'

'So was his marriage.'

'But he never showed any inclination that way.'

'He was an actor, Sam. I think he had been giving us all a very clever performance for some time.'

'But the Romish persuasion…'

He shook his head in wonder. Life in the theatre was likely to turn a man to anything but religion, still less to an exiled faith for which its martyrs were still dying the death of traitors. Samuel Ruff was dazed. Having enjoyed a friendship with someone for many years, he was now learning that it was founded on deceit. It hurt him to think that he had been hoodwinked.

'Nicholas,' he whispered.

'Yes?'

'Who was he?'

'I will let you know when I find out.'

There was only one thing worse than the extended agony of writing Gloriana Triumphant and that was waiting for Lawrence Firethorn to read it and pass judgement. He did not mince his words if he had criticisms and Edmund Hoode had suffered many times at his hands. As he waited for his colleague to dine with him at The Queen's Head, he sipped a glass of malmsey to fortify himself. He was of a different cast from Roger Bartholomew. The latter was an inexperienced playwright who believed that everything he wrote was superb: Hoode was an author of proven worth who became more uncertain of his talent with each play he wrote.

Firethorn made an entrance and posed in the doorway. His brow was troubled and his eyes malevolent. Fearing the inevitable, Hoode drained his cup of malmsey in one urgent gulp.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Edmund,' muttered Firethorn as he took his seat at the table. 'I was delayed.'

'I've not been here long.'

'It has been a devilish day. I need a drink.'

Hoode sat there in silence while the wine was ordered, served and drunk. His companion was in such a foul mood over the play that he wondered if anything about it had given pleasure. Though he had been forced into developing a romance, it had actually enriched the drama and become an integral part of it. He had at least expected Firethorn to approve of that.

'Are you in love, Edmund?' growled the other. In love?' The question caught him off guard.

'With a woman.' I have been. Many times.' Have you ever considered marriage?'

'Often.'

Never do so again!' warned Firethorn, using his hand like a grappling iron on the other's wrist. 'It's a state of continual degradation for a man. The bridal bed is nothing but purgatory with pillows!'

Hoode understood. Margery had found him out.

'What has your wife said, Lawrence?'

'What has she not? She called me names that would burn the ears off a master mariner and issued threats that would daunt a regiment of soldiers.' He brought both hands up to his face. 'Dear

‘God! It is like lying with a she-tiger!'

More wine helped Firethorn to recover from his wife's accusations and molestations. The irony was that nothing had so far happened between him and Lady Rosamund Varley apart from an exchange of glances during his performance on stage. The actor was being drawn and quartered for an offence that had not yet been committed but which, in view of Margery's venomous attack, he would now advance to the earliest possible moment.

'I will need you to write some verse for me, Edmund.'

'Verse?'

'A dozen lines or so. Perhaps a sonnet.'

'To your wife?' teased Hoode.

'You may compose a funeral dirge for that harridan!'

Food was ordered. Firethorn was ready for the business of the day. His wife had been the cause of the scowling fury which he had brought into the room. Hoode was relieved. He decided to grasp the nettle boldly.

'Have you read the play, Lawrence?'

'Enough of it,' grunted his companion.

'Oh.'

'A few scenes, sir. That was all I could stomach.'

'You did not like it?' asked Hoode tentatively.

'I thought it the most damnable and detestable piece ever penned! Dull, stale and meandering without a touch of wit or poetry to redeem it. I tell you, Edmund, had there been a taper nearby, I'd have set fire to the thing!'

'I felt it had some things to recommend it.'

'They eluded me, sir. It is one thing to praise the victory over the Armada but you have to sail through the narrow straits of the Revels Office first. That play would founder on the rocks. It would never be allowed through.'

'It was truly as bad as that?' said the demoralized author.

'What can you expect from a scribbler like Bartholomew?

'Bartholomew?'

'Who but he would choose a title like An Enemy Routed. That little rogue is the enemy, sir. The enemy of good theatre. He must be routed! I don't know why Nicholas gave me his miserable play. It was an abomination in rhyming couplets!'

Edmund Hoode had been saved for the second time. Margery Firethorn and Roger Bartholomew had born the brunt of an attack which he had thought was aimed at him. He did not wish to press his luck again. Patience was his strong suit. He waited until Firethorn had poured further bile upon the Oxford scholar.

The meal was served, they began to eat, then the verdict was at last pronounced. Firethorn held up his fork like a sceptre and beamed with royal condescension.

'It's magnificent, Edmund!'

'You think so?' stuttered Hoode.

'Your best work without a shadow of a doubt.'

'That is very heartening, Lawrence.'

'The action drives on, the poetry soars, the love scenes are divinely pretty. If Nicholas can devise a way to bring those ships on and off the stage, we will be the talk of London!'

They fell to discussing the finer points of the drama and an hour sneaked past without their noticing its departure. Firethorn suggested a few alterations but they were so minor that Hoode was glad to agree to them. Long days and even longer nights had gone into the creation of Gloriana Triumphant but the comments it was now receiving made all the suffering worth it.

'There is just one small thing…'

Edmund Hoode tensed as the familiar phrase sounded. Was there to be a total reworking of the play, after all? His fears proved groundless.

'Who will play the part of Gloriana?'

'I assumed that it would be Martin Yeo.'

'So did I until I read it.'

'Martin has the maturity for the role.'

'I am wondering if that is enough, Edmund,' said Firethorn. 'He is our senior apprentice, yes, and brings a wealth of experience but… well, he does have a hardness of feature that is more suited to an older woman.'

'Gloriana is in her fifties,' reminded Hoode.

'Only in your play. Not when she sits upon the throne of England. An affectionate chuckle came. 'All women are the same, Edmund. They try to defy time. In her heart, Elizabeth is still the young woman she was when she was first crowned.'

'What are you saying, Lawrence?' 'I think we should alter her age. Let her shed some twenty or thirty years. A Virgin Queen with the glow of youth still hanging upon her. It will strengthen the role immeasurably and make her love scenes with me much more convincing.'

'You have a point. It might work to our advantage.'

'It will, sir.'

'In that case, we must cast John Tallis in the part.'

'Indeed we must not.'

'But he has such presence.'