Edward Marston - The Queens Head

Some men wore shirts and breeches, others lounged in buff jerkins, others again sported doublet and hose of figured velvet, white ruffs, padded crescent-shaped epaulets, silk stockings, leather gloves, elaborate hats and short, patterned cloaks. Female attire also ranged from the simple to the extravagant with an emphasis on the latest fashions in the galleries, where stiffened bodices, full petticoats, farthingales, cambric or lawn ruffs, long gowns with hanging sleeves, delicate gloves, and tall, crowned hats or French hoods were the order of the day.

Wine, beer, bread, fruit and nuts were served throughout the afternoon and the cheerful hubbub rarely subsided. The trumpet sounded at two-thirty to announce the start of the play then the Prologue appeared in his black cloak. The first and last performance of The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart was under way.

Squeezed between two gallants in the middle gallery, Roger Bartholomew craned his neck to see over the leathered hats in front of him. The pint of sack had increased his anger yet rendered it impotent. All he could do was to writhe in agony. This was not his play but a grotesque version of it. Lines had been removed, scenes rearranged, battles, duels, sieges and gruesome deaths introduced. There was even a jig for comic effect. What pained the hapless author most was that the changes appealed to the audience.

Lawrence Firethorn held the whole thing together. He compelled attention whenever he was on stage and made the most banal verse soar like sublime poetry:

‘My name makes cowards flee and evil traitors start

For I am known as King Richard the Lionheart!’

His gesture and movement were hypnotic but it was his voice that was his chief asset. It could subdue the spectators with a whisper or thrill them with a shout like the report of a cannon. In his own inimitable way, he made yet another play his personal property.

His finest moment came at the climax of the drama. King Richard was besieging the castle of Chalus and he strode up to its walls to assess any weaknesses. An arbelester came out on to the battlements-the balcony at the rear of the stage-and fired his crossbow. The bolt struck Richard between the neck and shoulder where his chain mail was unlaced.

For this vital part of the action, Firethorn used an effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. The bolt was hidden up the actor's sleeve. As the crossbow twanged, he let out a yell of pain and brought both hands up to his neck with the bolt between them. The impact made him stagger across the stage. It was all done with such perfect timing that the audience was convinced they had actually seen the bolt fly through the air.

Richard now proceeded to expire with the aid of a twenty-line speech in halting verse. After writhing in agony on the ground, he died a soldier's death before being borne off-to the correct funeral music, on cue-by his men.

Thunderous applause greeted the cast when they came out to take their bow and a huge cheer went up when Lawrence Firethorn appeared. He basked in the acclaim for several minutes then gave one last, deep bow and took his leave. Once again he had wrested an extraordinary performance out of rather ordinary material.

Everyone went home happy. Except Roger Bartholomew.

Nicholas Bracewell had no chance to relax. Having controlled the play from his position in the tiring-house, he now had to take charge of the strike party. Costumes had to be collected, properties gathered up, the stage cleared and the trestles dismantled. Lord Westfield's Men would not be playing at The Queen's Head for another week and its yard was needed for its normal traffic of wagons and coaches. The debris left behind by almost a thousand people also had to be cleaned up. Rain added to the problems. Having held off until the audience departed, it now began to fall in earnest.

It was hours before Nicholas finally came to the end of a long day's work. He adjourned to the taproom for some bread and ale. Alexander Marwood came scurrying across to his table.

'How much was taken today, Master Bracewell?'

'I'm not sure.'

'There is the matter of my rent.'

'You'll be paid.'

'When?'

'Soon,' promised Nicholas with more confidence than he felt. He knew only too well the difficulty of prising any money out of Lawrence Firethorn and spent a lot of his time explaining away his employer's meanness. 'Very soon, Master Marwood.'

'My wife thinks that I should put the rent up.'

'Wives are like that.'

Marwood gave a hollow laugh. The landlord of The Queen's Head was a short, thin, balding man in his fifties with a nervous twitch. His eager pessimism had etched deep lines in his forehead and put dark pouches under his eyes. Anxiety informed everything that he did or said.

Nicholas always took pains to be pleasant to Marwood. Lord Westfield's Men were trying to persuade the landlord to let them use the inn on a permanent basis and there were sound financial reasons why he might convert his premises to a playhouse. But Marwood had several doubts about the project, not least the fact that a City regulation had been passed in 1574 to forbid the staging of plays at inns. He was terrified that the authorities would descend upon him at any moment. There was another consideration.

'We had more scuffles in the yard.'

'Good humoured fun, that's all,' said Nicholas. 'You always get that during a play.'

'One day it will be much worse,' feared Marwood. 'I don't want an affray at The Queen's Head. I don't want a riot. My whole livelihood could be at stake.' The nervous twitch got to work on his cheek. 'If I still have a livelihood, that is.'

'What do you mean, Master Marwood?'

'The Armada! It could be the end for us all.'

'Oh, I don't think so,' returned Nicholas easily.

'It's ready to set sail.'

'So is the English fleet.'

'But the Spaniards have bigger and better ships,' moaned the landlord. 'They completely outnumber us. Yes, and they have a great army in the Netherlands waiting to invade us.'

'We have an army, too.'

'Not strong enough to keep out the might of Spain.'

'Wait and see.'

'We'll all be murdered in our beds.' Armada fever had been sweeping the country and Marwood had succumbed willingly. He gave in before battle had even commenced. 'We should never have executed the Queen of Scots.'

'It's too late to change that,' reasoned Nicholas. 'Besides, you were happy enough about it at the time.'

'Me? Happy?’

'London celebrated for a week or more. You made a tidy profit out of the lady's death, Master Marwood.'

‘I would give back every penny if it would save us from the Armada. The Queen of Scots was treated cruelly. It was wrong.'

'It was policy.'

'Policy!' croaked Marwood as the nervous twitch spread to his eyelid and made it flutter uncontrollably. 'Shall I tell you what policy has done to my family, sir? It has knocked us hither and yon.' He wiped sweaty palms down the front of his apron. 'When my grandfather first built this inn, it was called The Pope's Head, serving good ale and fine wines to needy travellers. Then King Henry fell out with the Catholic religion so down comes the sign and we became The King's Arms instead. When Queen Mary was on the throne, it was Protestants who went to the stake and Catholics who held sway again. My father quickly hung the Pope back up in Gracechurch Street. No sooner had people got used to our old sign than we had a new queen and a new name.'

'It has lasted almost thirty years so far,' said Nicholas with an encouraging smile, 'and, by God's grace, it will last many more.'

'But the Spaniards are coming-thanks to policy!'

'The Spaniards will attempt to come.'

'We have no hope against them,' wailed Marwood. 'My wife thinks we should commission another sign in readiness. Henceforth, we will trade as The Armada Inn.'