Edward Marston - The Queen's Head

The rehearsal was an amalgam of professional calm and frantic improvisation. Several mistakes were made but they were quickly retrieved. Martin Yeo was not as fine a Duchess as Richard Honeydew but he was more than competent. The other players adapted their performances around his. Morale was slowly boosted. The play achieved its own momentum and carried them along.

When it was all over, they rested in the adjacent room that was being used as their tiring-house. The tensions of the last twenty-four hours had sapped them mentally and physically but recovery was imminent. With Firethorn at the helm, they now believed that they could distinguish themselves with The Loyal Subject. A wounded optimism spread.

John Tallis did not share it. Nothing could quiet his urgent pessimism. He was still highly apprehensive about the execution scene. Though it went exactly to plan, with the axe doing its work some inches away from the top of his skull, the boy was not reassured. What if Samuel Ruffs aim was wayward during the performance? How could the lad defend himself?

Execution was not a precise art. The most famous headsman of the day, Bull, was notorious for his errors. When he officiated in the grim tragedy at Fotheringhay Castle, he needed three attempts to behead Mary Queen of Scots. Yet Bull was heralded as a master of his trade. Why should Ruff be any more reliable? He was an untrained novice with a murderous weapon in his hands.

Tallis took his problem to Firethorn once more.

'Find someone else to double as Lorenzo,' he pleaded.

'There is nobody else,' replied the actor-manager.

'What about George Dart? He is short enough.'

'Short enough, yes,' conceded the other. 'But is he brave enough? Is he clever enough? Is he good enough? Never, sir! He is no actor. George Dart is a willing imbecile. He does simple things well in his own simple way. Lorenzo is an heroic figure in the ancient mould. I will not be doubled by a half-wit!'

'Release me from this ordeal!' implored Tallis.

'It will help to form your character.'

'But I am afraid, master.'

'Control your fears like every other player.'

'Please!'

'You will honour your commitment.'

'It grieves me, sir.'

'Cease this complaint.'

'But why me?'

Lawrence Firethorn produced his most disarming grin.

'Because you do it so well, John,' he flattered.

He moved away before the boy could protest any further. Tallis was trapped in the matching doublet. He looked across at Samuel Ruff. The latter was as relaxed and composed as ever but the boy's qualms remained. If the executioner's hand slipped, the career of John Tallis could be sliced in two. It was a devastating thought.

A muted excitement pervaded the room. Everyone else was savouring the experience of playing at Court. What the play offered them was a brief moment at the very pinnacle of their profession. The Loyal Subject was about duty and patriotism and love. It was the perfect Christmas gift for their Queen.

John Tallis viewed it differently. The execution scene was paramount for him. He had no concern for the themes of the drama or for its wider values. Only one thing mattered.

Where would the axe fall?

It was a pertinent question.

*

Queen Elizabeth and her Court supped in splendour that night. Fresh from their banquet and mellowed by their wine, the lords and ladies took up their appointed places in the hall at Richmond Palace. Caught in the flickering light of a thousand candles, they were an august and colourful assembly. A good-humoured atmosphere prevailed. Behind the posing and the posturing and the brittle repartee was a fund of genuine warmth. They were a receptive audience.

Every one of the tiered seats was taken but the throne stayed empty. While her guests waited for the entertainment, the Queen herself caused a delay. It was unaccountable. The longer she stayed away, the greater became the speculation. In no time at all, the whole place was a buzz of rumour.

The delay brought grave disquiet backstage. Keyed up for their performance, the actors were distressed by the unexpected wait. They were all on edge. Lawrence Firethorn paced uneasily up and down. Edmund Hoode's throat went dry and Barnaby Gill fidgeted nervously with his costume. Martin Yeo's bladder seemed to be on the point of bursting and John Tallis felt a prickly sensation around his neck. As he stood ready to set the furniture for the opening scene, George Dart was shaking like an aspen.

Even Samuel Ruff was disconcerted. His anxiety steadily increased. Perspiration broke out all over him and his naked arms and shoulders were glistening. As the delay stretched on and on, he fondled the handle of the axe with sweaty palms.

'Where is her Majesty?' whispered Gill.

'Exercising the privilege of royalty,' returned Firethorn.

'Making her players suffer?'

'Taking her time, Barnaby.'

A trumpet fanfare told them that the Queen had at last arrived. The comfortable din in the hall fell to a murmur. The tension among the players increased. Their moment was at hand.

Lawrence Firethorn applied his eye to a narrow gap in the curtain at the rear of the stage. He described what he saw in a low, reverential voice.

Surrounded by her guard, Queen Elizabeth sailed down the hall and ascended the dais to take up her seat on the throne. Resplendent in a billowing dress of red velvet, she acknowledged all those around her with a condescending wave. Her hair was encircled with pearls and surmounted by a tiny gold crown that was encrusted with diamonds. Her jewelled opulence filled the hall. Time had been considerate to her handsome features and her regal demeanour was unimpaired. Flames from the candles and from the huge fire made her finery dance with zest.

The actor-manager concluded with an awed whisper.

'Gentlemen, we are in the presence of royalty!'

Nicholas Bracewell took over the watch. When the Queen was settled, she motioned to Sir Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, and he in turn signalled to the book holder. On a call from Nicholas, the command performance began.

Music wafted down from the gallery where Peter Digby and his musicians were placed. The prologue was delivered and the trial scene commenced. From his first line, Firethorn exerted his power over the audience. He went on to bewitch them with his voice, to thrill them with his spirited honesty and to move them with his anguish. By the end of the scene, he had touched all their hearts and prompted the first few tears.

When sentence of death was passed, the judge vacated the stage and Lorenzo was led away by two gaolers. Music played as the others processed off. George Dart came on to set a stool in position and to remove the bench he had brought out earlier for the trial He skipped hurriedly off.

Assuming a look of wistful integrity, Firethorn was led on stage again by his gaolers. He sat on the stool in his cell. The two men departed, Lorenzo stared at the manacles on his wrists then he looked up with supplication in his eyes.

'O Loyalty! Thy name Lorenzo is!

For twenty faithful years I have been true

To my fair Duchess, angel from above,

Descended here to capture all our hearts

And turn our Milan into paradise.

Could I betray such sovereign beauty

For ugly coins of foul conspiracy?

Rather would I live in cruel exile

Or kill myself upon a dagger's point.

Fidelity had always been my cry

And constant will I be until I die!'

While Firethorn declaimed his soliloquy, the players in the tiring-house got ready for their next entrance. As Nicholas lined them up in order, he kept a wary eye on Ruff. The executioner was more nervous than ever. One of the most experienced actors in the company seemed to be unsettled by the occasion. Sweat still poured out of him and he moved from foot to foot.