The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 3

  England reacted with fortitude. An army of twenty thousand men was assembled at Tilbury under the Earl of Leicester. With the muster in the adjacent counties, it was a substantial force with the task of opposing any landing. A second army was formed at St James for the defence of the Queen’s person. The martial activity at once reassured and unnerved the citizens of London. They watched armed bands doing their training at Mile End and they heard the gunners of the Tower in Artillery Yard, just outside Bishopsgate, having their weekly practice with their brass ordnance against a great butt of earth. Invasion had a frightening immediacy.

  Queen Elizabeth herself did not hide away and pray. She reviewed her troops at Tilbury and fired them with stirring words. But the Armada would not be defeated with speeches and Rumour was still expanding its ranks and boasting about its dark, avenging purpose. On 12th July, the vast flotilla set sail from Corunna. The defence of Queen and country now became an imperative. King Philip of Spain was about to extend his empire.

  A week later, the captain of a scout-boat sent news that some Spanish vessels were off the Scillies with their sails struck as they waited for stragglers. On the ebb tide that night, Lord Admiral Howard and Sir Francis Drake brought their ships out of Plymouth Sound, making use of warps, to anchor them in deep water and be ready for action. Howard commanded the Ark Royal, the imposing flagship of the English fleet. At dawn the next day, he took fifty-four ships to the leeward of the Eddystone Rock and sailed to the south in order to be able – by working to windward – to double back on the enemy.

  Drake was in Revenge. That same evening, as he positioned his eight ships for an attack on the Spanish rear, he caught his first glimpse of the Armada. It was a majestic sight. A hundred and thirty-two vessels, including several galleons and other first-line ships, were moving up the Channel in crescent formation. Their admiral, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, believed so totally in Spanish invincibility that he thought nothing could stop him reaching his support army in the Low Countries.

  The English Fleet begged to differ. Staying to windward of the Armada, they hung upon it for nine days as it ran before a westerly wind up the Channel, pounding away with their long-range guns at the lumbering galleons, harrying, tormenting, inflicting constant damage, yet giving the Spaniards little chance to retaliate and no hope of grappling and boarding. The buccaneering skills of Drake and his like had free rein.

  When the wind sank on 23rd July, both fleets lay becalmed off Portland Bill. There was a further engagement two days later off the Isle of Wight then Medina Sidonia made the fatal mistake of anchoring his demoralised fleet in Calais Roads.

  The Queen’s ships which had been stationed at the eastern end of the Channel now joined the main fleet in the Straits and the whole sea-power of England was combined. Because it was not possible to get safely within gunshot range of the enemy, Howard held a council of war on the Ark Royal and a plan of action was decided upon. Eight ships were speedily filled with pitch, tar, dry timber and anything that would easily burn. The guns were left aboard but were double-shotted so that they would explode from the intense heat.

  Before midnight, the fire ships were lashed together and carried by the wind and a strong tide on their voyage. As the blazing vessels penetrated the cordon of fly-boats and pinnaces that guarded the galleons, the Spaniards flew into a panic and cut their cables. The pilotless ships wreaked havoc and the Armada was forced back out to the open sea where it was at the mercy of the English.

  Soon after dawn, battle was joined in earnest and it went on for almost eight hours, a raging conflict at close quarters during which the English showed their superiority over their opponents in handling their ships in difficult water. The Armada was stricken. If the English fleet had not run out of ammunition, hardly a single Spanish vessel would have escaped. As it was, the shattered flotilla fled northwards to face the horrors of a long voyage home around Scotland and thence south past Ireland.

  More than five hundred Spanish lives were lost on the return journey. Medina Sidonia limped home with less than half the fleet which had sailed out so proudly. The English had not lost a ship and scarcely a hundred men. The first invasion attempt for over five centuries had been gloriously repelled. Catholicism would never lay at anchor in the Thames.

  Weeks passed before the news reached England. Rumour continued to flap its wings and cause sleepless nights. It also flew across to the Continent to spread guileful stories about a Spanish victory. Bells were rung in the Catholic cities of Europe. Masses of thanksgiving were held in Rome and Venice and Paris. Rejoicing crowds lit bonfires in Madrid and Seville to celebrate the defeat of the heretic, Elizabeth, and the capture of the sea devil, Francis Drake.

  Truth then caught up with Rumour and plucked its feathers. Shocked and shamed, the Spanish people went into mourning. Their king would speak to nobody but his confessor. England, by contrast, was delirious with joy. When the news was made public, there was a great upsurge of national pride. London prepared to welcome home its heroes and toast their bravery a thousand times over.

  The Queen’s Head got its share of the bounty.

  ‘It’s agreed then. Edmund is to begin work on the play at once.’

  ‘I’ve not agreed,’ said Barnaby Gill testily.

  ‘Nor I,’ added Edmund Hoode.

  ‘We must seize the time, gentlemen,’ urged Firethorn.

  ‘You are rushing us into it,’ complained Gill.

  ‘Speed is of the essence, Barnaby.’

  ‘Then find someone else to write it,’ suggested Hoode. ‘I’ll not be hurried into this. Plays take much thought and many days, yet Lawrence wants it ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll settle for next Sunday,’ said Firethorn with a ripe chuckle. ‘Call upon your Muse, Edmund. Apply yourself.’

  The three men were sitting downstairs in Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch. Barnaby Gill was smoking his pipe, Edmund Hoode was drinking a cup of water and the host himself was reclining in his favourite high-backed oak chair. A meeting had been called to discuss future plans for Lord Westfield’s Men. All three of them were sharers, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the major roles in any performance.

  There were four other sharers but Lawrence Firethorn had found it expedient to limit decisions about the repertory to a triumvirate. Barnaby Gill had to be included. He was a short, stocky, pleasantly ugly man of forty with an insatiable appetite for foul-smelling tobacco and sweet-smelling boys. Morose and temperamental offstage, he was a gifted comedian once he stepped on to it and his facial expressions could reduce any audience to laughter. It was for his benefit that the comic jig had been inserted into the play about Richard the Lionheart.

  Professional jealousy made the relationship between Gill and Firethorn a very uneasy one with regular threats to walk out being made by the former. However, the two men knew that they would never part. The dynamic between them onstage was a vital ingredient in the success of the company. For this reason, Firethorn was ready to make allowances for his colleague’s outbursts and to overlook his indiscretions.

  ‘I do not like the idea,’ affirmed Gill.

  ‘Then you’ve not fully understood it,’ rejoined Firethorn.

  ‘What is there to understand, Lawrence? England defeats the Armada. You seek a play to celebrate it – and every other company in London will be doing the same thing.’

  ‘That is why we must be first, Barnaby.’

  ‘I’m against it.’

  ‘You always are.’

  ‘Unfair, sir!’

  ‘True, nonetheless.’

  ‘Why must we ape everyone else?’ demanded Gill, bristling. ‘We should try to do something different.’

  ‘My performance as Drake will be unique.’

  ‘Yes, there you have it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I see no part in this new play for me.’

  Edmund Hoode listened to the argument with the philosophical half-smile of someone who
has heard it all before. As resident poet with the company, he was often caught between the rival claims of the two men. Each wished to outshine the other and Hoode usually ended up pleasing neither.

  He was a tall, slim man in his early thirties with a round, clean-shaven face that still retained a vestige of youthful innocence. His curly brown hair and pale skin gave him an almost cherubic look. Hoode excelled in writing poems to the latest love in his life. What he found himself doing was producing hasty, if workmanlike, plays at a rate that moved him closer to nervous collapse each time. The one consolation was that he was always able to give himself a telling cameo role with romantic interest.

  ‘How soon will you have something to show us, Edmund?’

  ‘Christmas.’

  ‘I’m serious about this.’

  ‘So am I, Lawrence.’

  ‘We ask you as a special favour,’ purred Firethorn.

  ‘You expect too much of me.’

  ‘Only because you always deliver it, dear fellow.’

  ‘He’s wooing you,’ warned Gill cynically.

  ‘It will not serve,’ said Hoode.

  ‘I have your title,’ explained Firethorn. ‘It will leap off the playbills along with your name. Gloriana Triumphant!’

  ‘An ill-favoured thing, to be sure,’ noted Gill, wincing.

  ‘Be quiet, sir!’

  ‘I’m entitled to my opinion, Lawrence.’

  ‘You’re being peevish.’

  ‘I simply wish to choose another play.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hoode. ‘Another play by another author.’

  Lawrence Firethorn regarded them through narrowed eyes. He had anticipated opposition and he had the means to remove it at a stroke. His chuckle alerted them to the danger.

  ‘The decision has already been taken, gentlemen.’

  ‘By you?’ challenged Gill.

  ‘By Lord Westfield.’

  There was nothing more to be said. The company owed its existence to its patron. Under the notorious Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds, the acting profession had been effectively outlawed. The only dramatic companies that were permitted were those which were authorised by one noble and two judicial dignitaries of the realm. All other players were deemed to be rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars, making them liable to arrest. Lord Westfield had saved Firethorn and his fellows from that indignity. The patron’s word therefore carried enormous weight.

  ‘Start work immediately, Edmund,’ ordered his host.

  ‘Very well,’ sighed Hoode. ‘Draw up the contract.’

  ‘I have already done so.’

  ‘You take too much upon yourself,’ accused Gill.

  ‘Someone has to, Barnaby.’

  ‘We are sharers, too. We have rights.’

  ‘So does Lord Westfield.’

  Barnaby Gill summoned up his fiercest grimace. Not for the first time, he had been outwitted by Firethorn and it stoked his resentment even more. Edmund Hoode turned wearily to his new task.

  ‘I must talk with Nicholas.’

  ‘Do, do,’ encouraged Firethorn. ‘Use his knowledge of seamanship. Nicholas could be of great help to us here.’

  ‘We lean on him too much,’ said Gill irritably. ‘Master Bracewell is only a hired man. We should treat him as such and not deal with him as an equal.’

  ‘Our book holder has rare talents,’ countered Firethorn. ‘Accept that and be truly grateful.’ He turned to Hoode. ‘Make full use of Nicholas.’

  ‘I always do,’ answered the other. ‘I often think that Nicholas Bracewell is the most important person in the company.’

  Firethorn and Gill snorted in unison. Truth is no respecter of inordinate pride.

  London by night was the same seething, stinking, clamorous place that it was by day. As the two men made their way down Gracechurch Street, there was pulsing life and pounding noise all around them. They were so accustomed to the turmoil of their city that they did not give it a second thought. Ignoring the constant brush of shoulders against their own, they inhaled the reek of fresh manure without complaint and somehow made their voices heard above the babble.

  ‘Demand a higher wage from them, Nick.’

  ‘It would never be granted.’

  ‘But you deserve it, you bawcock.’

  ‘Few men are used according to their deserts, Will.’

  ‘Aye!’ said his companion with feeling. ‘Look at this damnable profession of ours. We are foully treated most of the time. They mock us, fear us, revile us, hound us, even imprison us, and when we actually please them with a play for two hours of their whoreson lives, they reward us with a few claps and a few coins before they start to rail at us again. How do we bear such a life?’

  ‘On compulsion.’

  ‘Compulsion?’

  ‘It answers a need within us.’

  ‘A fair fat wench can do that, Nick.’

  ‘I talk of deeper needs, Will. Think on it.’

  Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler were close friends as well as colleagues. The book holder had great respect and affection for the actor even though the latter caused him many problems. Will Fowler was a burly, boisterous character of medium height whose many sterling qualities were betrayed by a short temper and a readiness to trade blows. Nicholas loved him for his ebullience, his wicked sense of humour and his generosity. Because he admired Fowler so much as an actor, he defended him and helped him time and again. It was Nicholas who kept Fowler in a job and it strengthened their bond.

  ‘Without you, Westfield’s Men would crumble into dust!’

  ‘I doubt that, Will,’ said Nicholas easily.

  ‘We all depend upon you entirely.’

  ‘More fool me, for bearing such an unfair load!’

  ‘Seek more money. A labourer is worthy of his hire.’

  ‘I am happy enough with my wage.’

  ‘You are too modest, Nick!’ chided the other.

  ‘The same could not be said about you, I fear.’

  Will Fowler broke into such irrepressible laughter that he scattered passers-by all around him. Slapping his friend between the shoulder blades, he turned a beaming visage upon him.

  ‘I have tried to hide my light under a bushel,’ he explained, ‘but I have never been able to find a bushel big enough.’

  ‘You’re a born actor, Will. You seek an audience.’

  ‘Applause is my meat and drink. I would starve to death if I was just another Nicholas Bracewell who looks for the shadows. An audience has to know that I am a good actor and so I tell them as loud and as often as I can. Why conceal my excellence?’

  ‘Why indeed?’

  Nicholas collected a second slap on the back.

  They were crossing the bridge now and had to slow down as traffic thickened at its narrowest point. The massive huddle of houses and shops that made up London Bridge extended itself along the most important street in the city. The buildings stretched out over the river then lurched back in upon each other, closing the thoroughfare down to a width of barely twelve feet. A heavy cart trundled through the press. Nicholas reached forward to lift a young boy out of its path and earned a pale smile by way of thanks.

  ‘You see?’ continued Fowler. ‘You cannot stop helping others.’

  ‘The lad would have been hit by that wheel,’ said Nicholas seriously. ‘Too many people are crushed to death in the traffic here. I’m glad to be able to save one victim.’

  ‘One victim? You save dozens every day.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes!’ urged Fowler. ‘And they are not just careless lads on London Bridge. How many times have you plucked our apprentices from beneath the wheels of that sodden-headed, sheep-faced sharer called Barnaby Gill? That standing yard between his little legs will do far more damage than a heavy cart. You’ve saved Dick Honeydew and the others from being run down. You’ve saved Westfield’s Men no end of times. Most of all, you save me.’

  ‘From Master Gill?’ teased Nicholas.

  ‘What!�
�� roared Fowler with jovial rage. ‘Just let the fellow thrust his weapon at me. I’ll saw it off like a log, so I will, and use it as a club to beat his scurvy head. I’d make him dance a jig, I warrant you!’

  ‘Even I could not save you then, Will.’

  They left the bridge, entered Southwark and swung right into Bankside. The Thames was a huge, rippling presence beside them. Nicholas had been invited to a tavern by Fowler in order to meet an old friend of the latter. From the way that his companion had been flattering him, Nicholas knew that he wanted a favour and it was not difficult to guess what that favour was.

  ‘What is your friend’s name, Will?’

  ‘Samuel Ruff. As stout a fellow as you could find.’

  ‘How long is it since you last saw him?’

  ‘Too long. The years drift by so fast these days.’ He gave a sigh. ‘But they have been kinder to me than to Sam.’

  ‘Does he know that I’m coming?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to intrude upon an old friendship.’

  ‘It’s no intrusion. You’re here to help Sam.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ll find a way, Nick. You always do.’

  They strode on vigorously through the scuffling dark.

  Even though it lay fairly close to his lodging, the Hope and Anchor was not one of Nicholas’s regular haunts. There was something irremediably squalid about the place and its murky interior housed rogues, pimps, punks, thieves, pickpockets, gamblers, cheaters and all manner of masterless men. Ill-lit by a few stinking tallow candles, the tavern ran to rough wooden benches and tables, a settle and a cluster of low stools. Loamed walls were streaked with grime and the rushes on the stone-flagged floor were old and noisome. A dog snuffled for rats in one corner.

  The Hope and Anchor was full and the noise deafening. An old sailor was trying to sing a sea shanty above the din. A card game broke up in a fierce argument. Two drunken watermen thumped on their table for service. Prostitutes laughed shrilly as they blandished their customers. A fug of tobacco and dark purpose filled the whole tavern.

  Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler sat side by side on the settle and tried to carry on a conversation with Samuel Ruff, who was perched on a stool on the other side of the table. All three drank bottle-ale. It had a brackish taste.