Edward Marston - The Queens Head

Panting hard, the actor stopped for a moment to gather his strength then he charged in again with fists flying. Nicholas was ready for him. Throwing Creech off balance with a clever feint, he sank a punch into the man's solar plexus which took all his breath away. As his opponent doubled up with pain, Nicholas despatched him with a blow to the chin. Creech slumped to the ground in a heap and a few cheers went up from the spectators.

Nicholas rubbed the raw knuckles on his right hand and gazed down at Creech. The man had deserved his drubbing for his callous remark about Will Fowler but he clearly did not know Redbeard. Annoyed with himself for losing his temper, Nicholas stooped down to help the fallen man up.

'Keep off!' snarled Creech, pushing him away.

Staggering to his feet, the actor wiped some of the blood away from his mouth and shot Nicholas a look of malevolent hatred-Benjamin Creech then lumbered out through the main gate of the yard. Lord Westfield's Men had just lost a member of the company.

The performance that afternoon passed in a kind of blur for Nicholas Bracewell. Though he held the book for Marriage and Mischief and discharged his duties with his customary efficiency, his mind was elsewhere. The image of Redbeard stayed before him. He was galled that he had come so close to the man then let him get away.

Creech's absence had caused no major problems because he was only playing two small parts. Samuel Ruff took over one of them and the other was excised altogether. Barnaby Gill kept the audience rocking with mirth at his comic rages and Stephen Judd brought a willing competence to the role of the wife. In the small but telling part of a maidservant, Richard Honeydew showed real flair and his pert banter caused much amusement. Edmund Hoode, as a doddering old man, equipped his character with gout, deafness and a pronounced stutter in order to reap his laughs.

Lawrence Firethorn took the romantic lead. Though not as long a role as Gills, it was equally effective and it glittered through the afternoon. Barnaby Gill held sway over the coarser appetites of the groundlings but it was Firethorn who appealed to the more sensitive palates in the galleries. He made his speeches ring with passion and vibrate with subtle innuendo. When he delivered the Epilogue in rhyming couplets, he addressed each honeyed word to Lady Rosamund Varley, who was gracing the occasion with another of her spectacular dresses. Delighted yet again with his performance, she threw something down to him as he came out to take his bow.

Nicholas was relieved that it was all over and that he had not made any blunders through lack of concentration. He now braced himself for the reproaches that were to come. Because of him, Benjamin Creech stalked out of the company on the day of a Performance. Part of the book holder's job was to prevent violence, not to provoke it. Firethorn would certainly take him to task now that Marriage and Mischief could be put safely back in the playchest again. Fighting in the company was something that the actor would not tolerate. It was possible that Nicholas's own future with Westfield's Men was at risk.

'Ah! There you are, you varlet!'

Lawrence Firethorn came sweeping into the tiring-house like an avenging angel. He made straight for the book holder and lifted him bodily from his stool.

'Come with me, Nick!'

'Why, master?'

'We must have private conference.'

Firethorn dragged him off to the room at the rear, banished its occupants with a peremptory wave, then shut the door firmly behind them. Alone with the book holder, he regarded him seriously from beneath curling eyebrows.

'The day of judgement has arrived, sir,' he began.

'It was my fault,' apologized Nicholas frankly. 'I should not have let Creech put me to choler like that.'

'Creech?'

'His loss may yet be a gain, master. I believe that Creech may have been responsible for all our recent thefts.'

'Forget Creech,' said Firethorn irritably. 'I came to speak on a mightier theme.'

With a sinking sensation, Nicholas understood what he meant.

'Lady Rosamund Varley?'

'She has replied to my entreaty, Nick.' He produced the red rose which she had thrown to him on stage. 'With this.'

'Oh.'

Firethorn sniffed the rose and savoured its fragrance. A huge grin split his face in two like a sliced melon. He slapped his thigh with glee.

'She is mine!' he exclaimed. 'The day of judgement has come and I have not been found wanting. This is the appointed night for our tryst. We will need your assistance, Nick.'

'What must I do?' asked the other, hesitantly.

'Smooth the wrinkled path to love, dear heart!'

'I low, master?'

Firethorn gave him his instructions. He was to repair with all speed to the Bel Savage Inn on Ludgate Hill and hire their best rooms for the night. Supper was to be served at a stipulated hour and there were precise details of the menu. Even the nature of the lighting was specified. When he had finalized all these arrangements, Nicholas was to return to The Queen's Head and convey a message of confirmation to Lady Rosamund Varley, who would still be with Lord Westfield and his entourage in their private room.

'May I ask one question?' said Nicholas.

'Ask away, dear fellow.'

'Why have you chosen the Bel Savage?'

'Because,' replied the other, letting his chest swell with pride, 'it was there that I first gave the world my Hector!'

He bowed extravagantly to imagined applause then left the room with a flourish. Nicholas gave a man smile. At a time when much more urgent concerns pressed upon him, he was being used to promote Firethorn's adultery. He did not forget Lady Varley's old association with Lord Banbury and his earlier decision stood. He would emulate the play which had been staged that afternoon.

Nicholas would cause mischief in a marriage.

*

The injustice of it all gnawed at the very entrails of Edmund Hoode. A sonnet which achieved its desired objective for another man had signally failed for its author. The mellifluous verse which helped to enchant Lady Rosamund Varley had been wasted on Rose Marwood. The landlord's daughter was beyond the reach of poetry.

The poet was devastated but there was worse to come yet. When he changed out of his costume after the performance, he went to the taproom for some refreshment. Alexander Marwood pounced. The landlord's twitch was in full operation.

'A word with you, Master Hoode.'

'What ails you, sir?'

'A most grave matter. There is lechery abroad.'

'Indeed?'

‘Read the sinful document for yourself.’

He thrust a small scroll at the other and Hoode found himself staring down at his own sonnet. It had not been handled with kindness. The parchment was creased and covered with crude fingerprints. It was symbolic.

‘Well, sir?' demanded Marwood.

‘It is…moderately well-written,' said Hoode, pretending to read the lines for the first time. 'How came this into your hands, sir?'

‘It was given to my daughter by some scoundrel.'

'Who was he?'

'Rose could not say. It happened so quickly.'.

'Then how may I help you?'

'By finding the author of this vile stuff,' insisted the landlord. 'I tried to speak to Master Firethorn about it but he brushed me off. I turn to you instead. We must root out this fiend.'

'Why, sir?'

'Why, sir? Because my daughter's virtue is in danger as long as this lascivious knave remains in your company. My wife is resolved, Master Hoode. The man must go.'

'Go?'

'We will not lie easy in our beds until he is unmasked. The villain means to ravish our daughter.'

'I see nothing of that in the sonnet.'

'It is between the lines,' hissed Marwood. He controlled his twitch long enough to deliver an ultimatum. 'My wife and I are agreed, sir. Unless he is driven out, we must henceforth close our doors to Westfield's Men.'