Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

'Not so,' said Firethorn sternly. 'Do it yourself, Edmund.'

'But that scene came from his hand.'

'Which is exactly why it caused so much trouble. Ralph Willoughby has been the bane of this company for long enough.

Ever since be worked with us, we have been plagued by setback. Misfortune attends the fellow. I spoke with him yesterday and severed the connection. We paid him for his share of the play and he has gone. It is up to you now, Edmund.'

'But we were friends and co-authors,' said Hoode defensively.

'That time is past.'

'I never liked him,' admitted Gill sourly, tapping out his pipe on the edge of the table. 'Willoughby was the strangest soul. There was a darkness behind that bright smile of his that I could not abide.'

'Ralph is the finest dramatist in London,' insisted Hoode.

'That is open to dispute,' said Firethorn.

'He has worked with all the best companies, Lawrence.'

'Then why have they not retained his services?'

'Well…'

'Everyone seeks a resident poet, Edmund, which is why you are the envy of our rivals. But none of them has pressed Master Willoughby to stay. He writes well, I grant you, but he brings bad luck-and that is too heavy a burden to bear in the theatre.'

Hoode withdrew into his settle and brooded over his ale. Gill pondered. Firethorn let out a wheeze of satisfaction, feeling that he had carried the day with far less aggravation than he anticipated.

'Thus it stands, then,' he said. 'Lord Westfield will have his entertainment to order. Are we agreed?' He took their silence for consent. It is but a case of striking out one play and inserting The Merry Devils. Weil give it on Tuesday of next week at The Rose.'

'That we will not!' said Gill, exploding into life.

'I have made the decision, Barnaby.'

'Well, I resist it with all my might and main. Cupid's Folly was destined for The Rose. Strike out another play, if you must, but do not tamper with Cupid's Folly.'

'The Rose is most suited to our purposes, Barnaby.'

'You'll not find me there as Doctor Castrate'

'Put the needs of the company above selfish desire.'

'I mean this, Lawrence. I'll leave Westfield's Men before I'll submit to this. That is no idle threat, sir, be assured.'

Barnaby Gill's tantrums were a regular feature of any business meeting and his fellow-sharers learned to humour him. Once he had flared up, he soon burned himself out. This time it was different. He was in earnest. Cupid's Folly was his favourite comedy, the one play in their repertoire that offered him total domination of the stage. His performance in the leading role had been honed to such perfection that he could orchestrate the laughter from start to finish. He was not going to be robbed of his hour o: triumph. Folding his arms and pouting his lips, he turned an aggrieved face to the window.

Firethorn glanced over at Hoode and attempted a compromise.

'I have the answer,' he said guilefully. 'Edmund, did you not say that Doctor Castrato might have a dance or two more?'

'No, Lawrence.'

'Come, sir. You did.'

'I have no knowledge of the matter.'

'Then your memory is leaking. You urged it only yesterday.'

Unseen by Gill, he gestured wildly to Hoode for his support. The latter gave a resigned nod and went along with the lie, but his voice lacked any conviction.

'Now I bethink me, you are right. Another jig, f said.'

'Two, Edmund.'

'Oh, at least.'

'And a new song for the Doctor. His role must be extended.'

'At the expense of Justice Wildboare?'

'We need not go to that length,' said Firethorn hastily.

'Dances and a song, then. I will see to it.'

'Not on my account,' said Gill. 'I want Cupid's Folly.'

'But your new Castrato will dazzle the galleries at The Rose,' urged Firethorn. 'This is fair recompense for the change of play.'

'No, Lawrence. I am immoveable.'

And he turned his back on them in a spectacular sulk.

Firethorn exploded. He bullied, he badgered, he threatened, he aimed a torrent of abuse at his colleague. His voice was so loud and his language so florid that he made the whole room shake and dislodged four spiders from the beams above his head. It was the towering rage of a great actor in full flight and it would have brought a lesser man to his knees but Barnaby Gill was proof against the tirade. He simply refused to be a one-man audience to the extraordinary performance.

Impasse was reached. In the bruised silence that followed, Gill held his pose and Firethorn glared vengefully across at him. There seemed to be no way around the problem until Edmund Hoode intervened.

'We do not have to cancel Cupid's Folly' he said.

'Indeed, we do, sir!' snarled Firethorn. ' The Merry Devils must be our offering at The Rose.'

'And so it shall be.'

'Have you lost your wits, Edmund? We cannot stage both plays in the same afternoon. One must give way to the other.'

'That was not my meaning,' said Hoode quietly. 'The Merry Devils will be presented at The Rose and Cupid's Folly will take its turn on Friday at The Curtain.'

Firethorn was momentarily dumbfounded but Gill bubbled with joy.

'There you have it, Edmund!'

'The play we strike out is Vincentio's Revenge.'

'Have a care what you suggest, sir!' growled Firethorn.

'Vincentio's Revenge is a tedious piece,' said Gill airily. 'It will not be missed. Oh, we know that you touch the heights in the title role, Lawrence, and it is one of your most assured successes, but is it not time to ask-I put this to you in the spirit of friendship-if you are not a trifle long in the tooth to be a young Italian hero?'

Firethorn bared his teeth for Gill to assess their length.

'Is not this the best answer?' asked Hoode cheerily.

'Yes, sir!' said Gill.

'No, sir!' countered Firethorn.

'Edmund shows the wisdom of Solomon.'

'Then why does he talk like the village idiot?' The actor-manager stalked the room. 'I have fifteen special moments in Vincentio's Revenge and I'll not be denied one of them. It stays.'

'And so does Cupid's Folly,' said Gill petulantly.

It was stalemate again. While the two of them withdrew once more into a hurt silence, Edmund Hoode tried to sound impartial as he proffered his advice. But the removal of Vincentio's Revenge suited his purposes very well. Losing the part of a decrepit old lecher, he instead became a lovelorn shepherd in the pastoral comedy of Cupid's Folly. It would give him the chance to impress Grace Napier with his readiness to bear the cross of unrequited passion. Hoode worked hard to soothe Firethorn, telling him how incomparable his performance as Vincentio was, yet reminding him of his dazzling role as a prince in the other play. Siding imperceptibly with Gill, he slowly brought Firethorn to the realisation that there was no alternative. Without Cupid's Folly, they would have no Doctor Castrato. Vincentio would have to forgo his revenge.

'Put the company before yourself for once,' said Gill spitefully. Lawrence always does that,' said Hoode. 'And I am sure that he will make this supreme sacrifice for the sake of Westfield's Men and our esteemed patron.'

Firethorn showed one last flash of surging arrogance.

'But for me, there would be no company. I am Westfield's Men.'

'Right, sir,' sniped Gill. 'Play Doctor Castrato yourself, then.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen…' calmed Hoode.

'Play Droopwell. Play Youngthrust. Play the merry devils themselves.' Gill's tone was cruelly sarcastic. 'Since you have such an appetite for solo performance, carry a fan to hide your beard and play Lucy Hembrow into the bargain.' Enough, sir!'

Firethorn's exclamation was like the roar of a cannon. Circling the room in a frenzy, he kicked a chair, pounded the table, spat into the empty fireplace and sent a warming pan clattering from its nail on the wall. He came to rest before a window and stared out unseeing at the small but well-tended garden.