Edward Marston - The Queen's Head

'A miserable piece,' sneered Firethorn. 'Nothing but stale conceits and dribbling verse. I'd not soil my hands with it.'

'Giles Randolph was playing the hero. He had a scene with Samuel in the role of a tribune. It was--' Nicholas broke off abruptly and shrugged his shoulders. 'Ah, well. You've no wish to hear all this.'

'Go on, go on.'

'It may just be idle gossip.'

'What happened, Nick?'

Lawrence Firethorn was keen to know. He and Giles Randolph were deadly rivals, talented artistes who competed with each other every time they walked on to a stage. Anything that was to the detriment of Randolph would come as welcome news. Curiosity made Firethorn tap his book holder on the chest.

'Come on, sir. They had a scene together.'

'At an important point in the action.'

'Well?'

Nicholas had worked with actors long enough to learn some of their tricks. He delayed for a few seconds to heighten the tension then he plunged on.

'When Samuel gave of his best, Randolph complained that his performance was too strong. It stole the hero's thunder.'

'Ha! Some hero! Some thunder.'

'Samuel is a forthright man. He told the truth.'

'That Randolph is a babbling idiot!'

'That a leading actor should lead and not surround himself with poor players who would make him look all the better.'

'And me?' said Firethorn, intrigued. 'What of me?'

'Samuel used you as an example, master. You would outshine any company. The finer the players around you, the more you rise above them. They feed your inspiration.'

Firethorn beamed. No praise sweeter than that from a fellow actor. He judged Samuel Ruff to be very perceptive and began to forgive him for his association with Banbury's Men. Nicholas took advantage of his changed mood.

'Samuel is desperate to join us,' he continued. 'He feels it as a duty to Will Fowler. He is so eager to help us that he offered to do so without payment of any kind.'

'Indeed?' Firethorn's eye kindled.

'But I assured him that you were a man of honour, who would not conceive of employing someone without giving him fair reward.'

'Of course,' agreed the actor, hiding his disappointment.

'Then it's settled?'

Firethorn sat on the edge of the four-poster. Even in his night attire, he retained a crumpled dignity. He looked like a Roman senator brooding on affairs of state.

'Tell him to attend the rehearsal in one hour.'

Nicholas nodded, then withdrew. It had worked out well. Confident of his powers of persuasion, he had already told Ruff at what time to present himself at The Queen's Head. The story of the hired man's departure from his previous company had not been entirely true but Nicholas had no qualms about embellishing the bare facts. A vain man like Lawrence Firethorn enjoyed seeing the vanity of others exposed. The main thing was that a crisis had been averted. The play would not be cancelled.

It was one small consolation after an horrendous night.

*

Samuel Ruff did not let them down. Though tired and grieving, he arrived at the rehearsal with a secure grasp on his lines and a real understanding of his character. When he was taken through his moves, he learned quickly and his evident respect for Firethorn was another telling factor. He was indeed the man for the hour.

The performance that afternoon delighted its audience. Love and Fortune was a romantic comedy about the perils of over-hasty passion and its use of mistaken identity was particularly endearing. Firethorn led the company with his usual verve, Edmund Hoode sparkled as a lovelorn gallant, and Barnaby Gill used all his comic skills to set the inn yard at a roar. With splendid wigs and costumes, the boy apprentices brought the female characters vivaciously to life.

Ruff himself was excellent in the testing role of Lorenzo. Not only did he carry his own part well, he improvised cleverly when, first, one of the actors missed an entrance, then another dried in the middle of a speech. Samuel Ruff was a veteran player, seasoned by long years in a demanding profession that had lately turned its callous back on him. In his ebullient performance, there was no hint of the dark sorrow that lay in his heart.

Love and Fortune proved the ideal play for the occasion. Will Fowler's death had shaken the whole company and there was a funereal air about the rehearsal. Once they began, however, the actors were swept along by the joyous romp and given no time to dwell on their sadness. Out of a deep tragedy, they had plucked forth a comic triumph.

Nicholas Bracewell was at the helm, marshalling the cast, cueing the action, making sure that the pace was maintained. Part of his job was to prepare a Plot of the drama, which gave details, scene by scene, of what was happening, who was involved and when they made their entrances and exits. Since they worked only from individual sides written out for them by the scrivener, the actors relied totally on the Plot that was hung up in the tiring-house and they had cause to be grateful for the legibility of Nicholas's hand and for his meticulousness. It was all there.

The book holder was thrilled at the way that Ruff was standing in for his old friend, and he saw the excitement in the man's face every time he came offstage. Here was no farm labourer, content to live out his days in rural anonymity. The playhouse was his true home. Like Will Fowler, he would never be happy away from it. Nicholas resolved to talk further with Firethorn.

The leading actor himself was in an affable mood, smiling upon all and sundry as he strode back into the tiring-house each time with applause at his heels. Before his next entrance, he would study himself carefully in a mirror and stroke his beard, fondle his locks or make slight adjustments to his hat and garments. It was not only the success of the play that was pleasing him, nor even the fact that Lord Westfield himself was there to witness it. Something else was putting that swagger into his walk. Barnaby Gill identified what it was.

'In the middle of the lower gallery,' he hissed.

'I thought so,' said Nicholas, flicking over a page of his prompt book. 'I recognized the signs.'

'He's directing every line at her.'

'Is he getting any response?'

'Response!' echoed Gill with spiteful relish. 'She keeps lowering her mask and favouring him with such ardent glances that he is almost smouldering. Mark my words, Nicholas, she knows how to tickle his epididymis.'

'Who is she?'

'Prepare yourself.'

'Why?'

'Lady Rosamund Varley.'

'Oh!'

Nicholas waved some of the actors into position to make their entrance. He did not dare to reflect on what he had just been told. A possible liaison between Lawrence Firethorn and Lady Rosamund Varley was far too disturbing to consider. He kept his mind on the job in hand and warned the lutenist to make himself ready. Gill's tone remained malicious.

'Love and fortune indeed!'

'Don't forget your costume change.'

'It's lust and misfortune!'

'Ben!' called Nicholas. 'Stand by.'

'Aye,' came the gruff reply from a thickset actor.

'His wife should geld him,' decided Gill. 'It's the only way to tame a stallion like that. Margery should geld him--with her teeth."

Benjamin Creech went past with a tray of goblets.

'Remember to offer the first to Lorenzo,' said Nicholas.

'Aye.'

'Don't drink any yourself,' teased Gill wickedly.

'No,' grunted Creech.

When his cue came, he straightened his back and made his entrance. Nicholas turned over another page. Barnaby Gill rid himself of some more bilious comments then let his gaze wander until it settled on one of the apprentices. Richard Honeydew was standing in profile as he shook out his petticoats. His face was small and beautifully shaped with a youthful bloom on it that made his skin look like silk. Barnaby Gill watched him in wonderment.