Edward Marston - The Queen's Head

'Thank you, thank you!'

'I make no promises, mark you.'

'I understand that. Just put my work into his hand.'

'It may be some little while before he reads it.'

'I can wait.'

Bartholomew squeezed his arm in gratitude then headed quickly for the exit. Nicholas glanced down at the manuscript and saw the list of dramatis personae. Those names alone told him that the piece was unactable in its present form. It might be a kindness to protect the author from the kind of searing comments that Firethorn was likely to offer, but Nicholas had given his word and he would hold to it.

He went through into the yard to make sure that everything was in order for the morning rehearsal. The stagekeepers broke off from their chat when they saw him and busied themselves at once. Samuel Ruff was talking in a corner to Benjamin Creech, another of the hired men. Nicholas waved Ruff over to him. Since his visit from Susan Fowler, he had had no chance to speak to the other alone. When he described what had happened, Ruff was as amazed as he had been. There was a tide of regret in his voice. Will Fowler married? I can't believe it.'

'Neither could I.'

'He said nothing.'

Not even a hint between old friends?'

'No,' replied Ruff. 'And we drifted apart for so long. Will Fowler! I'd never have thought him serious-minded enough to take a wife. And such a young, untried girl at that.

'It has been an ordeal for her.'

'Is she still at your lodging, Nick?'

'She travels back to St Albans today,' explained the other. 'Susan is in good hands. A close friend of mine will see her safely on her journey.'

Anne Hendrik had treated the girl like a daughter and helped her through the first difficult days of mourning. A widow herself she knew at first hand the deep pain and the numbing sense of loss that Susan felt, though she could only guess at how much worse it must be to have a husband violently cut down in a brawl Nicholas had been touched to see how Anne had opened her heart to their young guest and it had deepened his affection for his landlady. Susan's visit had also given him paternal feelings that surprised him.

'Do you know where the girl lives?' asked Ruff. 'Why?'

'I would like to know. One day, I might just find myself in that part of the country. If I stay in this verminous profession, anything can happen.' A grim smile brushed his lips. 'The truth is that I'm curious to meet her. Anyone who can take Will Fowler as a husband must have rare qualities.'

'Oh, she does.'

'He was not the easiest man to live with.'

'No. Did Will ever talk to you about his faith?'

'Only to curse it now and again in his cups.'

'He was of the Church of Rome.'

'What!' Ruff was thunderstruck. 'That is impossible.'

'So was his marriage.'

'But he never showed any inclination that way.'

'He was an actor, Sam. I think he had been giving us all a very clever performance for some time.'

'But the Romish persuasion...'

He shook his head in wonder. Life in the theatre was likely to turn a man to anything but religion, still less to an exiled faith for which its martyrs were still dying the death of traitors. Samuel Ruff was dazed. Having enjoyed a friendship with someone for many years, he was now learning that it was founded on deceit. It hurt him to think that he had been hoodwinked.

'Nicholas,' he whispered.

'Yes?'

'Who was he?'

'I will let you know when I find out.'

*

There was only one thing worse than the extended agony of writing Gloriana Triumphant and that was waiting for Lawrence Firethorn to read it and pass judgement. He did not mince his words if he had criticisms and Edmund Hoode had suffered many times at his hands. As he waited for his colleague to dine with him at The Queen's Head, he sipped a glass of malmsey to fortify himself. He was of a different cast from Roger Bartholomew. The latter was an inexperienced playwright who believed that everything he wrote was superb: Hoode was an author of proven worth who became more uncertain of his talent with each play he wrote.

Firethorn made an entrance and posed in the doorway. His brow was troubled and his eyes malevolent. Fearing the inevitable, Hoode drained his cup of malmsey in one urgent gulp.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Edmund,' muttered Firethorn as he took his seat at the table. 'I was delayed.'

'I've not been here long.'

'It has been a devilish day. I need a drink.'

Hoode sat there in silence while the wine was ordered, served and drunk. His companion was in such a foul mood over the play that he wondered if anything about it had given pleasure. Though he had been forced into developing a romance, it had actually enriched the drama and become an integral part of it. He had at least expected Firethorn to approve of that.

'Are you in love, Edmund?' growled the other. In love?' The question caught him off guard.

'With a woman.' I have been. Many times.' Have you ever considered marriage?'

'Often.'

Never do so again!' warned Firethorn, using his hand like a grappling iron on the other's wrist. 'It's a state of continual degradation for a man. The bridal bed is nothing but purgatory with pillows!'

Hoode understood. Margery had found him out.

'What has your wife said, Lawrence?'

'What has she not? She called me names that would burn the ears off a master mariner and issued threats that would daunt a regiment of soldiers.' He brought both hands up to his face. 'Dear

'God! It is like lying with a she-tiger!'

More wine helped Firethorn to recover from his wife's accusations and molestations. The irony was that nothing had so far happened between him and Lady Rosamund Varley apart from an exchange of glances during his performance on stage. The actor was being drawn and quartered for an offence that had not yet been committed but which, in view of Margery's venomous attack, he would now advance to the earliest possible moment.

'I will need you to write some verse for me, Edmund.'

'Verse?'

'A dozen lines or so. Perhaps a sonnet.'

'To your wife?' teased Hoode.

'You may compose a funeral dirge for that harridan!'

Food was ordered. Firethorn was ready for the business of the day. His wife had been the cause of the scowling fury which he had brought into the room. Hoode was relieved. He decided to grasp the nettle boldly.

'Have you read the play, Lawrence?'

'Enough of it,' grunted his companion.

'Oh.'

'A few scenes, sir. That was all I could stomach.'

'You did not like it?' asked Hoode tentatively.

'I thought it the most damnable and detestable piece ever penned! Dull, stale and meandering without a touch of wit or poetry to redeem it. I tell you, Edmund, had there been a taper nearby, I'd have set fire to the thing!'

'I felt it had some things to recommend it.'

'They eluded me, sir. It is one thing to praise the victory over the Armada but you have to sail through the narrow straits of the Revels Office first. That play would founder on the rocks. It would never be allowed through.'

'It was truly as bad as that?' said the demoralized author.

'What can you expect from a scribbler like Bartholomew?

'Bartholomew?'

'Who but he would choose a title like An Enemy Routed. That little rogue is the enemy, sir. The enemy of good theatre. He must be routed! I don't know why Nicholas gave me his miserable play. It was an abomination in rhyming couplets!'

Edmund Hoode had been saved for the second time. Margery Firethorn and Roger Bartholomew had born the brunt of an attack which he had thought was aimed at him. He did not wish to press his luck again. Patience was his strong suit. He waited until Firethorn had poured further bile upon the Oxford scholar.

The meal was served, they began to eat, then the verdict was at last pronounced. Firethorn held up his fork like a sceptre and beamed with royal condescension.