The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Read online

  ‘I expected so much more,’ confided the author as the drink turned his fury into wistfulness. ‘I had hopes, Nicholas.’

  ‘They’ll not be dashed.’

  ‘I felt so betrayed as I sat there this morning.’

  ‘Rehearsals often deceive.’

  ‘Where is my play?’

  It was a cry from the heart and Nicholas was touched. Like others before him, Roger Bartholomew was learning the awful truth that an author did not occupy the exalted position that he imagined. Lord Westfield’s Men, in fact, consigned him to a fairly humble station. The young Oxford scholar had been paid five pounds for his play and he had seen King Richard make his first entrance in a cloak that cost ten times that amount. It was galling.

  Nicholas softened the blow with kind words as best he could, but there was something that could not be concealed from the wilting author. Lawrence Firethorn never regarded a play as an expression of poetic genius. He viewed it merely as a scaffold on which he could shout and strut and dazzle his public. It was his conviction that an audience came solely to see him act and not to watch an author write.

  ‘What am I to do, Nicholas?’ pleaded Bartholomew.

  ‘Bear with us.’

  ‘I’ll be mocked by everyone.’

  ‘Have faith.’

  After giving what reassurance he could, the book holder left him staring into the remains of his sack and wishing that he had never left the University. They had taken him seriously there. The groves of academe had nurtured a tender plant which could not survive in the scorching heat of the playhouse.

  Nicholas, meanwhile, hurried back to the yard where the preparations continued apace. The stage was a rectangle of trestles that jutted out into the middle of the yard from one wall. Green rushes, mixed with aromatic herbs, had been strewn over the stage to do battle with the stink of horse dung from the nearby stables. When the audience pressed around the acting area, there would be the competing smells of bad breath, beer, tobacco, garlic, mould, tallow and stale sweat to keep at bay. Nicholas observed that servingmen were perfuming large ewers in the shadows so that spectators would have somewhere to relieve themselves during the performance.

  As soon as he appeared, everyone converged on him for advice or instruction – Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, Hugh Wegges, the tireman, Will Fowler, one of the players, John Tallis, an apprentice, Matthew Lipton, the scrivener, and the distraught Peter Digby, leader of the musicians, who was still mortified that he had sent Richard the Lionheart to his grave with the wrong funeral march. Questions, complaints and requests bombarded the book holder but he coped with them all.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man with long fair hair and a full beard, Nicholas Bracewell remained even-tempered as the stress began to tell on his colleagues. He asserted himself without having to raise his voice and his soft West Country accent was a balm to their ears. Ruffled feathers were smoothed, difficulties soon resolved. Then a familiar sound boomed out.

  ‘Nick, dear heart! Come to me.’

  Lawrence Firethorn had made a typically dramatic entrance before moving to his accustomed position at the centre of the stage. After almost three years with the company, Nicholas could still be taken aback by him. Firethorn had tremendous presence. A sturdy, barrel-chested man of medium height, he somehow grew in stature when he trod the boards. The face had a flashy handsomeness that was framed by wavy black hair set off by an exquisitely pointed beard. There was a true nobility in his bearing which belied the fact that he was the son of a village blacksmith.

  ‘Where have you been, Nick?’ he enquired.

  ‘Talking with Master Bartholomew.’

  ‘That scurvy knave!’

  ‘It is his play,’ reminded Nicholas.

  ‘He’s an unmannerly rogue!’ insisted the actor. ‘I could run him through as soon as look at him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Why, sir? Because that dog had the gall to scowl at me throughout the entire rehearsal. I’ll not put up with it, Nick. I’ll not permit scowls and frowns and black looks at my performance. Keep him away from me.’

  ‘He sends his apologies,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

  ‘Hang him!’

  Firethorn’s rage was diverted by a sudden peal of bells from a neighbouring church. Since there were well over a hundred churches in the capital, there always seemed to be bells tolling somewhere and it was a constant menace to open air performance. The high galleries of the inn yard could muffle the pandemonium outside in Gracechurch Street but it could not keep out the chimes from an adjacent belfry. Firethorn thrust his sword arm up towards heaven.

  ‘Give me a blade strong enough,’ he declared, ‘and I’ll hack through every bell-rope in London!’

  Struck by the absurdity of his own posture, he burst into laughter and Nicholas grinned. Working for Lawrence Firethorn could be an ordeal at times but there was an amiable warmth about him that excused many of his faults. During their association, Nicholas had developed a cautious affection for him. The actor turned to practicalities and cocked an eye upwards.

  ‘Well, Nick?’

  ‘We might be lucky and we might not.’

  ‘Be more exact,’ pressed Firethorn. ‘You’re our seaman. You know how to read the sky. What does it tell you?’

  Nicholas looked up at the rectangle of blue and grey above the thatched roof of the galleries. A bright May morning had given way to an uncertain afternoon. The wind had freshened and clouds were scudding across the sky. Fine weather was a vital factor in the performance as Firethorn knew to his cost.

  ‘I have played in torrents of rain,’ he announced, ‘and I would willingly fight the Battle of Acre in a snowstorm this afternoon. I care not about myself, but about our patrons. And about our costumes.’

  Nicholas nodded. The inn yard was not paved. Heavy rain would mire the ground and cause all kinds of problems. He was as anxious to give good news as Firethorn was to receive it. After studying the sky for a couple of minutes, he made his prediction.

  ‘It will stay dry until we are finished.’

  ‘By all, that’s wonderful!’ exclaimed the actor, slapping his thigh. ‘I knew I chose the right man as book holder!’

  The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart was a moderate success. Playbills advertising the performance had been put up everywhere by the stagekeepers and they brought a large and excitable audience flocking to The Queen’s Head. Gatherers on duty at the main gates charged a penny for admission. Many people jostled for standing room around the stage itself but the bulk of the audience paid a further penny or twopence to gain access to the galleries, which ran around the yard at three levels and turned it into a natural amphitheatre. The galleries offered greater comfort, a better view and protection against the elements. Private rooms at the rear were available for rest, recreation or impromptu assignations.

  All sorts and conditions of men flooded in – lawyers, clerks, tinkers, tailors, yeomen, soldiers, sailors, carriers, apprentices, merchants, butchers, bakers, chapmen, silk-weavers, students from the Inns of Court, aspiring authors, unemployed actors, gaping countrymen, foreign visitors, playhouse gallants, old, young, lords and commoners. Thieves, cutpurses and confidence tricksters mingled with the crowd to ply their trade.

  Ladies, wives, mistresses and young girls were fewer in number and, for the most part, masked or veiled. Gentlemen about town pushed and shoved in the galleries to obtain a seat near the women or to consort with the prostitutes who had come up from the Bankside stews in search of clients. Watching the play was only part of the entertainment and a hundred individual dramas were being acted out in the throng.

  Some men wore shirts and breeches, others lounged in buff jerkins, others again sported doublet and hose of figured velvet, white ruffs, padded crescent-shaped epaulets, silk stockings, leather gloves, elaborate hats and short, patterned cloaks. Female attire also ranged from the simple to the extravagant with an emphasis on the latest fashions in the galleries, where stiffened bodices
, full petticoats, farthingales, cambric or lawn ruffs, long gowns with hanging sleeves, delicate gloves, and tall, crowned hats or French hoods were the order of the day.

  Wine, beer, bread, fruit and nuts were served throughout the afternoon and the cheerful hubbub rarely subsided. The trumpet sounded at two-thirty to announce the start of the play, then the Prologue appeared in his black cloak. The first and last performance of The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart was under way.

  Squeezed between two gallants in the middle gallery, Roger Bartholomew craned his neck to see over the feathered hats in front of him. The pint of sack had increased his anger yet rendered it impotent. All he could do was to writhe in agony. This was not his play but a grotesque version of it. Lines had been removed, scenes rearranged, battles, duels, sieges and gruesome deaths introduced. There was even a jig for comic effect. What pained the hapless author most was that the changes appealed to the audience.

  Lawrence Firethorn held the whole thing together. He compelled attention whenever he was on stage and made the most banal verse soar like sublime poetry:

  My name makes cowards flee and evil traitors start

  For I am known as King Richard the Lionheart!

  His gesture and movement were hypnotic but it was his voice that was his chief asset. It could subdue the spectators with a whisper or thrill them with a shout like the report of a cannon. In his own inimitable way, he made yet another play his personal property.

  His finest moment came at the climax of the drama. King Richard was besieging the castle of Chalus and he strode up to its walls to assess any weaknesses. An arbalester came out on to the battlements – the balcony at the rear of the stage – and fired his crossbow. The bolt struck Richard between the neck and shoulder where his chain mail was unlaced.

  For this vital part of the action, Firethorn used an effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. The bolt was hidden up the actor’s sleeve. As the crossbow twanged, he let out a yell of pain and brought both hands up to his neck with the bolt between them. The impact made him stagger across the stage. It was all done with such perfect timing that the audience was convinced they had actually seen the bolt fly through the air.

  Richard now proceeded to expire with the aid of a twenty-line speech in halting verse. After writhing in agony on the ground, he died a soldier’s death before being borne off – to the correct funeral music, on cue – by his men.

  Thunderous applause greeted the cast when they came out to take their bow and a huge cheer went up when Lawrence Firethorn appeared. He basked in the acclaim for several minutes then gave one last, deep bow and took his leave. Once again he had wrested an extraordinary performance out of rather ordinary material.

  Everyone went home happy. Except Roger Bartholomew.

  Nicholas Bracewell had no chance to relax. Having controlled the play from his position in the tiring-house, he now had to take charge of the strike party. Costumes had to be collected, properties gathered up, the stage cleared and the trestles dismantled. Lord Westfield’s Men would not be playing at The Queen’s Head for another week and its yard was needed for its normal traffic of wagons and coaches. The debris left behind by almost a thousand people also had to be cleaned up. Rain added to the problems. Having held off until the audience departed, it now began to fall in earnest.

  It was hours before Nicholas finally came to the end of a long day’s work. He adjourned to the taproom for some bread and ale. Alexander Marwood came scurrying across to his table.

  ‘How much was taken today, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘There is the matter of my rent.’

  ‘You’ll be paid.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon,’ promised Nicholas with more confidence than he felt. He knew only too well the difficulty of prising any money out of Lawrence Firethorn and spent a lot of his time explaining away his employer’s meanness. ‘Very soon, Master Marwood.’

  ‘My wife thinks that I should put the rent up.’

  ‘Wives are like that.’

  Marwood gave a hollow laugh. The landlord of The Queen’s Head was a short, thin, balding man in his fifties with a nervous twitch. His eager pessimism had etched deep lines in his forehead and put dark pouches under his eyes. Anxiety informed everything that he did or said.

  Nicholas always took pains to be pleasant to Marwood. Lord Westfield’s Men were trying to persuade the landlord to let them use the inn on a permanent basis and there were sound financial reasons why he might convert his premises to a playhouse. But Marwood had several doubts about the project, not least the fact that a City regulation had been passed in 1574 to forbid the staging of plays at inns. He was terrified that the authorities would descend upon him at any moment. There was another consideration.

  ‘We had more scuffles in the yard.’

  ‘Good humoured fun, that’s all,’ said Nicholas. ‘You always get that during a play.’

  ‘One day it will be much worse,’ feared Marwood. ‘I don’t want an affray at The Queen’s Head. I don’t want a riot. My whole livelihood could be at stake.’ The nervous twitch got to work on his cheek. ‘If I still have a livelihood, that is.’

  ‘What do you mean, Master Marwood?’

  ‘The Armada! It could be the end for us all.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ returned Nicholas easily.

  ‘It’s ready to set sail.’

  ‘So is the English fleet.’

  ‘But the Spaniards have bigger and better ships,’ moaned the landlord. ‘They completely outnumber us. Yes, and they have a great army in the Netherlands waiting to invade us.’

  ‘We have an army, too.’

  ‘Not strong enough to keep out the might of Spain.’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘We’ll all be murdered in our beds.’ Armada fever had been sweeping the country and Marwood had succumbed willingly. He gave in before battle had even commenced. ‘We should never have executed the Queen of Scots.’

  ‘It’s too late to change that,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘Besides, you were happy enough about it at the time.’

  ‘Me? Happy?’

  ‘London celebrated for a week or more. You made a tidy profit out of the lady’s death, Master Marwood.’

  ‘I would give back every penny if it would save us from the Armada. The Queen of Scots was treated cruelly. It was wrong.’

  ‘It was policy.’

  ‘Policy!’ croaked Marwood as the nervous twitch spread to his eyelid and made it flutter uncontrollably. ‘Shall I tell you what policy has done to my family, sir? It has knocked us hither and yon.’ He wiped sweaty palms down the front of his apron. ‘When my grandfather first built this inn, it was called The Pope’s Head, serving good ale and fine wines to needy travellers. Then King Henry fell out with the Catholic religion so down comes the sign and we became The King’s Arms instead. When Queen Mary was on the throne, it was Protestants who went to the stake and Catholics who held sway again. My father quickly hung the Pope back up in Gracechurch Street. No sooner had people got used to our old sign than we had a new queen and a new name.’

  ‘It has lasted almost thirty years so far,’ said Nicholas with an encouraging smile, ‘and, by God’s grace, it will last many more.’

  ‘But the Spaniards are coming – thanks to policy!’

  ‘The Spaniards will attempt to come.’

  ‘We have no hope against them,’ wailed Marwood. ‘My wife thinks we should commission another sign in readiness. Henceforth, we will trade as The Armada Inn.’

  ‘Save your money,’ counselled Nicholas, ‘and tell your wife to take heart. The Spaniards may have more ships but we have better seamen. Lord Howard of Effingham is a worthy Admiral and Sir John Hawkins has used all his experience to rebuild the fleet.’

  ‘We are still so few against so many.’

  ‘Adversity brings out true mettle.’

  Marwood shook his head sadly and his brow furrowed even m
ore. Nothing could still his apprehension. Seers had long ago chosen 1588 as a year of disaster and the portents on every side were consistently alarming. The landlord rushed to meet catastrophe with open arms.

  ‘The Armada Inn! There’s no help for it.’

  Nicholas let him wallow in his dread. Like everyone else, he himself was much disturbed at the notion of a huge enemy fleet that was about to bear down on his country, but his fear was tempered by an innate belief in the superiority of the English navy. He had first-hand knowledge. Nicholas had sailed with Drake on his famous circumnavigation of the globe in the previous decade.

  Those amazing three years had left an indelible impression upon him and he had disembarked from the Golden Hind with severe reservations about the character of the man whom the Spaniards called the Master Thief of the Unknown World. For all this, he still had immense respect for his old captain as a seaman. Whatever the odds, Sir Francis Drake would give a good account of himself in battle.

  Darkness was falling when Nicholas left The Queen’s Head to begin the walk home to his lodgings in Bankside. He glanced up at the inn sign to see how his sovereign was responding to the threat of invasion. Buffeted by the wind and lashed by the rain, Queen Elizabeth creaked back and forth on her hinges. But she was not dismayed. Through the gathering gloom, Nicholas Bracewell fancied that he caught a smile of defiance on her lips.

  Chapter Two

  Rumour was on the wing. It flew over the country like a giant bird of prey that swooped on its victims at will. Estimates of the size of the Armada increased daily. The Duke of Parma’s army in the Netherlands was also swelled by report. A papal promise of a million crowns to reward a successful invasion became a guarantee of ten times that amount. Terror even invented a massive force of English Catholics, who would stream out of their hiding places to join forces with Spanish soldiers and to help them hack Protestantism to pieces. The satanic features of King Philip II appeared in many dreams.