Edward Marston - The Queen's Head

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1587, and Mary, Queen of Scots, dies by the executioner's axe, her head, shorn of its auburn wig, rolling across the platform. Will her death end the ceaseless plotting against Mary's red-haired cousin, Elizabeth?
1588, the year of the Spanish Armada, is a time of more terror and triumph, not just for queen and court but for the whole of England. The turmoil is reflected in its theatres and under the galleries of inns like London's The Queen's Head where Lord Westfield's Men perform. The scene there on grows even more tumultuous when one of the actors is murdered by a mysterious stranger during a brawl.
Nicholas Bracewell, the company's bookholder, a role far wider than mere producer, faces two immediate repercussions. The first is to secure a replacement acceptable to its temperamental star -- and chief shareholder -- Lawrence Firethorn. The second is to keep his promise to the dying Will Fowler and catch his killer.
Soon further robberies, accidents, and misfortunes strike Lord Westfield's Men even as their stage successes swell. Bracewell begins to suspect a conspiracy, not a single murderous act, but where lies the proof? Then the players are rewarded with the ultimate accolade -- an appearance at court -- and the canny bookholder senses the end to the drama is at hand....
First published to great acclaim in 1988, The Queen's Head anticipated the lure of bawdy, boisterous, yet elegant epics like Shakespeare in Love. Actor and playwrite Marston has followed with, to date, ten more lusty, historically grounded, theatrically sound Bracewell mysteries that explore the face of England and reveal his deep love for its rich literary and dramatic heritage. The Roaring Boy wasnominated for a 1996 Edgar Award for Best Novel.
From Publishers Weekly
Marston launches a series with this first appearance of Nicholas Bracewell, "book holder" for an English theatrical company in 1588. Not only the prompter but also the wise manager of the group, Bracewell must cope with temperamental thespians and other, more grave crises. As England rejoices in the triumph over the Spanish Armada, the troupe rehearses a play honoring Queen Elizabeth, which she will attend. Hopes for a gala performance are dashed when a villain named "Redbeard" kills actor Will Fowler; that event and other incidents lead Bracewell to suspect a plot to ruin the company. Helped by Sam Ruff, who substitutes for Fowler, the manager keeps up morale and takes steps to guard against Redbeard in advance of the queen's arrival at the theater. Marston's exhilarating mystery, ending with a bang-up close--on and off stage--is colored by details about the acting profession at that time and, sadly, about the era's mortal quarrels between Catholics and Protestants. 

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'Nicholas is much more than that,' she replied with spirit. 'You do him a grave disservice. As for Edmund, he's so busy with this latest play of his that he has no time to spend with the child and is grateful for any help.'

Though she was kept very much on the fringe of events, Margery Firethorn could see how much the book holder contributed to the running of the company, but that was not the only reason why she rushed to his defence. She was particularly fond of him. In a profession with more than its share of self-importance and affectation, he stood out as a modest soul and a true gentleman.

'I will bid you farewell,' said Gill.

'Good day, Barnaby.'

'And remember what I told you.'

'About Lawrence?'

'There is no other lady in his life.'

His tone made it quite clear that there was. Having assured Firethorn of a stormy reception when next he came home, Barnaby Gill took his leave. As he walked abroad through the streets of Shored itch, he thought about the pleasures there might be in instructing Richard Honeydew how to use a sword and dagger. An opportunity would surely come one day.

Margery, meanwhile, turned to her household duties. She was in the middle of upbraiding the servant girl when there was a loud banging at the front door. A breathless George Dart was admitted. Margery glared down at him and the diminutive stagekeeper cowered in fear.

why do you make such noise at my door?' she demanded. Master Bracewell sent me,' he said between gulps for air.

'For what purpose?'

'To fetch Dick Honeydew.'

'He's already gone.'

'Are you sure, mistress? He has not turned up for sword practice. Master Bracewell has waited over an hour.'

'The boy left the house around ten.'

'Did you see him leave?'

'No, but I heard him go with the others.'

A frown settled on her forehead as she tried to puzzle it out then she grabbed George Dart by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs.

'We'll soon sort this out,' she promised.

'Dick is never late as a rule.'

'There has to be an explanation.'

Having reached the first landing, she went along to another small flight of stairs. When Richard Honeydew had first moved in, he had slept in the same room as the other apprentices and suffered nightly torments. Margery had moved him up to an attic room on his own, and it was to this that she now hurried.

'Dicky!'

She flung open the door but the room was empty.

'Dicky!' she called again.

'Where can he be, mistress?'

'Not here, as you see. Dicky!'

Her third shout produced a response. There was a muffled thumping from somewhere nearby. Dart's elfin face puckered.

'Did you hear that?'

'Listen!'

'There was a--'

'Shhhh!'

They waited in silence until more thumping came. Margery went out into the passageway and soon tracked it down. There was a small cupboard under the eaves and its rough wooden door was vibrating with each sound. George Dart was terrified but Margery plunged on, seizing the handle and throwing open the door with a flourish.

'Dick!' she cried.

'God in heaven!' exclaimed the stagekeeper.

Richard Honeydew was not able to answer them. Completely naked, he was lying bound and gagged on the bedding that was stored in the cupboard. His eyes were pools of horror and his cheeks were puce with embarrassment. Both his heels were bruised from their contact with the timber.

Margery Firethorn plucked him to her bosom and held him in a maternal embrace. As her mind began to devise a punishment for this latest prank of the other apprentices, something else flitted across it to make her catch her breath. What if Barnaby Gill had been the one to find him?

*

Alexander Marwood was unrepentant. As landlord of a busy inn, he had countless duties to attend to and he was always working under intense pressure, not to mention the dictates of a nagging spouse. He saw it as no part of his job to be tactful in passing on bad news. When Susan Fowler came to him, he simply delivered a plain message in a plain way.

'What was wrong with that?' he asked.

'Common decency should tell you,' replied Nicholas.

'The man's dead, isn't he? No helping that.'

'Perhaps not but there's a way of helping his widow.'

'I told her the truth.'

'You hit her with it.'

'Who says so?'

'I do,' accused Nicholas.

Marwood's face was in its usual state of wrinkled anxiety bin there was no hint of apology in its folds and twitches. It was useless to take him to task about the way that he had met Susan Fowler's enquiry. Here was a man who gravitated towards misery and positively rejoiced in being the bearer of bad tidings.

After a final word of reproach, Nicholas Bracewell turned on his heel and walked across the taproom. He did not get very far. A familiar Figure was obstructing his path.

Good morning, Master Bartholomew.'

'Hello, Nicholas.'

'I did not think to see you at The Queen's Head again.'

'Times have changed.' admitted the poet. 'I have a favour to ask of you. I know that you will oblige me.'

'I will do my best, sir.'

Roger Bartholomew pulled out the manuscript that was tucked under his arm. He handled it with the reverence that is only accorded to holy writ. Pride and pain jostled for supremacy in his expression and Nicholas could see just how much effort it had cost him to return to the scene of his earlier dejection. The young scholar inhaled deeply before blurting out his request.

'I wanted you to show this to Master Firethorn.'

'A new play?'

'It is a vast improvement upon the last one.'

'Even so.'

'If you could persuade him to read it, I'm sure that he will discern its quality.'

'We are not looking for a new play at the moment.'

'You will be unable to refuse An Enemy Routed?

'But we do not purchase much new work,' explained Nicholas. 'Most of our pieces come from stock. Westfield's Men only stage six or seven new plays a year.'

'Ask him to read it,' urged Bartholomew, handing the precious manuscript to him. 'It tells of the Spanish Armada.'

'Ah.'

'It is a celebration of a supreme achievement.'

'That may be so, Master Bartholomew, but...' Nicholas searched for a way to let him down lightly. 'It is a popular subject these days. Many authors have been inspired to write dramas that deal with our triumphs at sea. As it happens, Edmund Hoode is writing a play for us on that selfsame theme.'

'Mine is the better,' asserted Bartholomew.

'Possibly, sir, but Gloriana Triumphant has been contracted.'

'It has a base title.'

'Have you thought of offering your play to another company?

'I bring it to you first.'

'It may get a fairer hearing elsewhere.'

'The leading role was written with Lawrence Firethorn in mind,' said the poet. 'It's the part of a lifetime for him.'

'Why not try the Queen's Men?' suggested Nicholas. 'They commission more new plays than we can afford. So do Worcester's. Of course, the most appropriate company would be the Admiral Men.'

Roger Bartholomew's face fell. He had learned much about Greek, Latin, Poesy and Rhetoric at Oxford but nothing whatsoever about the art of dissembling. His countenance was open book in which Nicholas read the pathetic truth. An Enemy Routed had been taken around every dramatic company in London Far and rejected by them all, including the children's companies. Far from being at the top of the list, Westfield's Men were essentially a last resort, a final, desperate bid by a young poet with a burning conviction of the merit of his work.

Nicholas knew that there was not even the slightest possibility that the company would take the play, but he had too much compassion to crush the author's hopes there and then. 'I will see what I can do, Master Bartholomew.'

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