Edward Marston - The Queen's Head

'Indeed?'

'Read the sinful document for yourself.'

He thrust a small scroll at the other and Hoode found himself staring down at his own sonnet. It had not been handled with kindness. The parchment was creased and covered with crude fingerprints. It was symbolic.

'Well, sir?' demanded Marwood.

'It is...moderately well-written,' said Hoode, pretending to read the lines for the first time. 'How came this into your hands, sir?'

'It was given to my daughter by some scoundrel.'

'Who was he?'

'Rose could not say. It happened so quickly.'.

'Then how may I help you?'

'By finding the author of this vile stuff,' insisted the landlord. 'I tried to speak to Master Firethorn about it but he brushed me off. I turn to you instead. We must root out this fiend.'

'Why, sir?'

'Why, sir? Because my daughter's virtue is in danger as long as this lascivious knave remains in your company. My wife is resolved, Master Hoode. The man must go.'

'Go?'

'We will not lie easy in our beds until he is unmasked. The villain means to ravish our daughter.'

'I see nothing of that in the sonnet.'

'It is between the lines,' hissed Marwood. He controlled his twitch long enough to deliver an ultimatum. 'My wife and I are agreed, sir. Unless he is driven out, we must henceforth close our doors to Westfield's Men.'

'But how do you know he belongs to the company?'

'We know,' said the other darkly.

Edmund Hoode felt his heart constrict. Instead of winning the favours of Rose Marwood, his sonnet had brought the full weight of her parents down upon him. The relationship between landlord and company was always uneasy. His poem had thrown it into jeopardy.

'Rose fetched it to us,' explained Marwood. 'She does not read. No more do I with any great skill, but my wife is educated. She read its bold message clear enough. My wife has a quick mind, sir. You may have noticed.'

'Yes, yes,' agreed Hoode.

'She thinks that scroll might have a clue.'

'Clue?'

'At the bottom there,' said the landlord, jabbing a bony finger at the poem. 'Two letters are picked out, sir. "E" and "H". Might they not be his initials?'

'Oh, I think not,' replied the poet, trying to put him off the scent. 'That is too obvious a device for the fellow. He works in deeper ways.' He stared at the sonnet and invention came to his aid. 'I think I have it, Master Marwood!'

'You know the villain's hand?'

'No, bin I can guess at his name. There is a clue here if we can but unravel it. Read the opening lines.'

'Do it for me, sir. I am no scholar.'

'"Be mine, sweet creature, come unto thy love,

O rarest rose, wilt not upon thy stem..."'

'Lechery in every word!' wailed the landlord.

'You see how the first letter is writ large?' said Hoode, thrusting the scroll under his nose. 'That "B" stands for Ben, I'll wager.'

'Ben who?'

'Look to that "sweet creature". There is our clue. Hidden in that "creature", I dare swear, is a certain Creech.'

'Ben Creech?'

'One of the hired men in the company.'

'I know him. A surly fellow who cannot hold his ale.'

'He is our man, sir.'

'Could such a man as that write poetry?'

'He paid some scribbler to write it for him,' argued Hoode. 'Creech has been eyeing your daughter, Master Marwood, and it comes as no surprise to me. We had trouble with the fellow when we played at The Saracen's Head in Islington. It was a serving-wench on that occasion. Creech is a hot-blooded rogue.'

'He must be sent on his way!' yelled Marwood vengefully.

'He already has been. Ben Creech is no longer with us.'

'Is this true?'

'It is an accident that heaven provides,' said the other easily. Danger has passed and your daughter is safe.'

'This news brings much relief, sir.'

To me as well!' muttered Hoode with feeling. 'Tell me, Master Marwood. Did anyone read the sonnet to your daughter?'

'My wife did,' answered the landlord, twitching merrily. 'That was part of our concern, sir. Rose liked it. She is a fanciful girl and easily led astray. The poem touched her.'

Marwood went off across the room and Edmund Hoode wiped some of the perspiration from his lip. Agility of mind had saved both him and the company. Benjamin Creech had been palmed off as the love-lorn swain. Hoode's own hopes had been dashed for ever but there was one consolation. Rose Marwood did respond to a poet's lute, after all. She would think fondly of her admirer.

Needing some fresh air after the encounter with the landlord Hoode went out into the yard where the stage was being taken down. It was a scene he had witnessed many times but it was to hold a cruel element for him now. George Dart was as busy as always, carrying trestles away under the eaves that ringed the yard. The little stagekeeper paused to catch his breath and caught more. Rose Marwood popped out of her hiding place near the stables and kissed him on the cheek before racing away again. Since he had given her the poem, she clearly thought that he was its author.

Edmund Hoode's misery was complete. He went home.

*

The Bel Savage Inn supplied all his needs. He was given a large, low, well-furnished room with an adjacent bed-chamber which featured rich hangings around its four-poster. Nicholas Bracewell had been as reliable as always. Walking around the room, Lawrence Firethorn gave silent thanks for his book holder. Everything was as it should be, even down to the number and positioning of the candles. As night began to draw its curtains, the whole place was bathed in a soft, bewitching glow.

His patience was at last rewarded. When Lady Rosamund arrived, they would share an exquisite repast and drink the finest Canary wine. Musicians had been hired to play for them. He would then woo her ardently and they would glide together into the bed-chamber to consummate their love on a four-postered paradise. Life could hold nothing sweeter for him.

He heard a sound on the landing outside and came out of his reverie. There was a tap on the door. He cleared his throat.

'Come in.'

The door opened and Nicholas Bracewell looked in.

'The lady is below, master.'

'Show her up, sir.'

'She will be with you presently.'

Nicholas closed the door behind him and Firethorn moved to the mirror to check his appearance for the last time. Because Lady Rosamund had expressed a wish to see his Hector, he had thought of dressing up in the costume that he had worn while playing the role, but he decided that that would be gilding the lily. Looking spruce and gallant in his doublet and hose, he adjusted his hat slightly then smiled at himself in the mirror.

Footsteps sounded outside. He took up his stance and cleared his throat again. There was another tap on the door, it swung open and she was conducted into him. The whole room was filled with her presence and he swooned as he inhaled her luscious perfume. Nicholas withdrew and closed the door, leaving them alone together for the first time in their lives.

Lady Rosamund Varley stood in the shadows and smiled tenderly at him. A long gown covered her dress, a hood concealed her face. She had come to the assignation with as much eagerness as he had and he sensed her breathless urgency.

Firethorn had the speech to fit the occasion.

'"Now shall great Hector lay aside his sword,

Put off the garlands of a warrior,

And, talking terms of love, embrace defeat,

Surrender to his mistress all he hath!"'

*

He removed his hat to make his bow. Her gloved hands applauded softly and she stepped forward into the light. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be.

I have waited for this moment a long time,' he said.

With courteous boldness, he moved towards her and gently eased back her hood so that he could taste the honey of her lips. The kiss was brief and light and oddly familiar. He pulled back and looked her in the face. His amorous inclination fell stone dead. It was not Lady Rosamund Varley at all. It was his wife.