Edward Marston - The Queen's Head

Roger Bartholomew was waiting for him outside The Queen's Head in a state of high anxiety.

'I got your message, Nicholas.'

'Good.'

'Did he read my play?'

'Yes, Master Bartholomew. So did I.'

'Well?' The poet was on tenterhooks.

'It's a fine piece,' praised Nicholas, trying to find something positive to say that would cushion the disappointment. 'It has memorable speeches and stirring moments. The account of the battle itself is very striking.'

'Thank you. But what of Lawrence Firethorn.'

Everything hung on the decision. For Roger Bartholomew, it was a last hope of a career as a playwright. Acceptance would nourish him and rejection would destroy. Nicholas hated to be the one to deal the blow. What he could do was to conceal the virulence of Firethorn's attack on the play.

'I believe that he...saw its promise as well.'

'And the leading role?' pressed Bartholomew. 'Did it captivate him as I foretold?'

'To a degree, sir. He recognized the extent of your talent.'

'Then he wishes to present it?' asked the poet with a wild laugh. 'Lord Westfield's Men will offer me another contract?'

'Unhappily, no.'

'Why not?'

'Because it docs not fit in with our plans, sir.'

Roger Bartholomew was stunned. An Enemy Routed had become his obsession and he thought of nothing but the day when it would first be staged. He had put his whole being into the play. If his work was rejected then he himself was being cast aside as well-

'Are you sure that he read it?' he demanded.

'I can vouch for it.'

'Make him reconsider.'

'He will not, sir.'

'But he must!'

'There's no point, Master Bartholomew.'

'There's every point!' howled the other. 'He does not ealize what is at stake here. My play is a work of art. It's his sacred duty to bring it before the public.'

Nicholas reached into the leather bag he was carrying. Taking out one of the manuscripts that lay inside, he held it out to the scholar.

'I'm sorry,' he said firmly. 'Thank you for offering it to us but I've been told to return it herewith.'

'Let me see Master Firethorn.'

'That would not be wise.'

'Is the man hiding from me?'

'Indeed not, sir.'

'Then I'll hear this from his own lips.'

'I strongly advise against it.'

'You'll not get in my way this time,' insisted Bartholomew. 'Make an appointment for me. I mean to have this out with him in person and nothing will stop me.'

Nicholas felt that the truth would halt him. His attempt to protect the other from it had failed. It was time for plain speaking.

'Master Firethorn does not like the play at all, sir.'

'That cannot be!' protested the author.

'His comments were not kind.'

'I won't believe this, Nicholas!'

'He could only bring himself to read a few scenes and he found them without interest. He was especially critical of your rhyming. You may talk with him if you wish, but he will only tell you the same thing in much rounder terms.'

Roger Bartholomew was dazed. Rejection was torment enough but an outright condemnation of him and his work was far worse. His face was ashen and his lip was trembling. He snatched his play back then turned all the venom he could muster upon Nicholas.

'You lied to me, sir!'

'I thought to spare you some pain.'

'You led me astray.'

'There was never a chance of your play being accepted.'

'Not while I have friends like you to thank!'

'We already have a drama about the Armada,' said Nicholas, indicating his leather bag. 'I did warn you of that.'

'You will all suffer for this,' threatened Bartholomew, lashing out blindly with words. 'I'll not be treated this way by anybody, no, not by you, nor Master Firethorn, nor anyone in your vile profession. I want satisfaction for this and, by heaven, sir, I mean to get it!'

Vibrating with fury, he clutched his play to his chest then pushed past Nicholas to rush off at speed. The book holder watched him go then looked down at the leather bag that contained a copy of Gloriana Triumphant. Two plays on the same subject had brought different rewards to their authors. Once again, he was profoundly grateful that he was not a playwright in such a treacherous world as that of the theatre.

*

Barnaby Gill had been unhappy at first about the decision to promote Richard Honeydew to the title role of the new play. He had a high opinion of Martin Yeo's talent and felt that the older boy would bring more regal authority to the part of Gloriana. At the same time, he was ready to recognize the claims of Stephen Judd, who had improved his technique markedly in recent months and who had been an undoubted success in Love and Fortune as a wanton young wife. The lantern jaw of John Tallis put him out of the reckoning but the other two were powerful contenders.

Apprenticeship was bound by no formal rules and practises varied with each company, but Barnaby Gill accepted the general principle of seniority. On that count alone, Richard Honeydew had to be excluded. The other three boys had earned the right to be considered before him, and Gill put this point forcefully at a meeting with his colleagues.

Lawrence Firethorn spiked his guns. Edmund Hoode and the other sharers had already been talked around by the wily Firethorn so the decision stood. All that Gill could do was to register his protest and predict that they would rue their mistake. Richard Honeydew was over-parted.

'Well done, Dick.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You have natural grace.'

'I simply wish to please, sir.'

'Oh, you do that, boy,' said Gill. 'You may prove me wrong yet.'

The more he watched Richard, the more he came to see his unusual gifts as a performer. His voice was clear, his deportment good and his use of gesture effective. With a dancer's eye, Gill admired his sense of balance, his timing and the easy fluency of his movement. Most important of all, the boy had now learned to wear female apparel as if he were himself female and this was a special accomplishment. Richard Honeydew might turn out to be the best choice as Gloriana, after all, and Gill did not in the least mind admitting it.

Lord Westfield's Men had rented a large room at The Queen's Head for early rehearsals. Barnaby Gill contrived a word alone with the boy during a break for refreshment.

'How are you enjoying it, Dick?'

'Very much, sir.'

'Have you ever played a queen before?' .

'Never, Master Gill. It's a great honour.'

'Who knows?' he teased softly. 'You may even outshine our own Gloriana.'

'Oh, no,' replied the boy seriously. 'Nobody could do that, sir. I think that our Queen is the most wonderful person in the world.'

Gill saw a chance to impress the boy and he took it.

'Yes,' he said casually. 'Her Majesty has been gracious to admire my playing on more than one occasion.'

Richard gaped. 'You've met her?'

'I've performed at court a number of times.'

There had, in fact, been only two appearances at the royal palace and they had been some years ago, but Gill disguised all this. He also concealed his true feelings about Queen Elizabeth. Most women filled him with mild distaste but the royal personage had done rather more than that.

Richard Honeydew might worship her along with the rest of her subjects but the fastidious, observant actor had got close enough to her to see her as no more than a middle-aged woman with a ginger wig, black teeth and a habit of using thick raddle on any part of her skin that could not be covered by clothing. Queen Elizabeth was a walking wardrobe. Beneath the flamboyant attire was a mass of wires, stays and struts, which supported the stiff exterior. Gill acknowledged that she had given a striking performance but the ravaged beauty had not won his heart.

'Will the company play at court again?' asked Richard.