The Malevolent Comedy Read online

  ‘I need no lessons in behaviour from you,’ snarled Hibbert.

  ‘It seems that you do.’

  ‘Step aside, man.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, standing his ground. ‘I want an apology first.’

  ‘Apology? For what?’

  ‘Putting yourself before Hal Bridger.’

  Hibbert was contemptuous. ‘He means nothing to me.’

  ‘Well, he does to us,’ said Nicholas, vehemently. ‘When he joined Westfield’s Men, he became part of a family and we cherish each member of it dearly. Spurn him at your peril, Master Hibbert.’

  ‘Who are you to give orders to me? Be off with you!’

  He reached out both hands to push Nicholas aside but he soon regretted doing so. His wrists were grabbed and he was swung so hard against the wall of the tiring-house that it knocked the breath from him. Putting a hand around his throat, Nicholas forced his head back.

  ‘You may be the talk of London,’ he said, ‘but it’s clearly not because of your manners. You’re a disgrace to the name of gentleman, Master Hibbert. You’ll start treating the members of this company – from the highest to the lowest – with the respect that’s due to them, or you’ll answer to me. And the same goes for the landlord. Talk to him civilly and pay your bills on time.’ He banged the playwright’s head against the wall. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘I’ll kill you for this,’ yelled Hibbert, struggling in vain to escape.

  Nicholas tightened his grip. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ croaked the other, defiantly. Nicholas applied more pressure until Hibbert’s eyes began to bulge. The playwright was eventually forced to capitulate. ‘Yes,’ he gurgled. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good,’ said Nicholas, releasing him with a cold smile. ‘And if you should still wish to kill me, Master Hibbert, I’ll be happy to indulge you at any time. You can have choice of weapons.’

  ‘Oh, I will!’ warned Hibbert, rubbing his throat. ‘Nobody treats me like that – least of all an upstart book holder. I’ll be back, I promise you. I’ll be back to get my revenge.’

  Cursing under his breath, he reeled out of the tiring-house.

  The atmosphere in the taproom was strangely subdued. Though the actors were entitled to celebrate, they did so in muted fashion, all too conscious of the fact that one of their number had been poisoned in the course of the play. Guilty feelings had been stirred by Hal Bridger’s death. Those who had mocked him and exploited his good nature now felt pangs of remorse. They wished that they had been kinder to him when he was alive, and more tolerant of his shortcomings. Lawrence Firethorn shared the general contrition, aware that he, too, had been unduly harsh to the assistant stagekeeper at times. Seated at a table in the corner, the actor-manager reflected on the situation with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode.

  ‘This changes everything,’ he said, gloomily.

  ‘I do not think so,’ countered Gill. ‘We must make the most of our success and play The Malevolent Comedy again tomorrow. When word of it spreads, we’ll be able to run for a week or more.’

  ‘And must we poison someone in each performance?’ asked Hoode, sardonically. ‘For that is what they saw and loved onstage this afternoon. Whose turn will be next? Yours, Barnaby?’

  ‘Cease this jesting.’

  ‘I speak in all seriousness.’

  ‘And so do I,’ said Firethorn. ‘Edmund is right. We owe it to Hal Bridger to let a decent interval pass before we tackle the play again. We’ll stage Black Antonio tomorrow, as planned.’

  ‘That’s madness!’ chided Gill. ‘You throw away our advantage.’

  ‘The Malevolent Comedy will keep for a few days.’

  ‘I never thought to hear such stupidity coming from the mouth of a blacksmith’s son. Strike while the iron is hot, Lawrence. Is that not the first thing you learnt at your father’s anvil?’

  ‘No,’ replied Firethorn, nostalgically. ‘The first thing I learnt was not to put my hand on the anvil because it was usually still hot from the horseshoe that had just been hammered into shape upon it.’

  ‘I do not think we should play at all tomorrow,’ opined Hoode.

  ‘Then you must have taken leave of your remaining senses,’ said Gill, pouting with outrage. ‘Leave our stage empty? Our rivals would love that, I am sure. Why not simply surrender our occupations altogether?’

  ‘I have already done that, Barnaby.’

  ‘And not before time, I may say.’

  ‘No more of this nonsense!’ ordered Firethorn, putting down his empty wine cup with a bang. ‘It’s folly to say that we’ll deny our audience tomorrow and double folly to say that Edmund is a spent force as a playwright.’

  ‘He admitted it himself,’ noted Gill.

  ‘Willingly,’ said Hoode. ‘I yield the palm to Master Hibbert.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men need more than one playwright to keep up a steady flow of new work,’ said Firethorn, ‘and I look to the time when we have you back at your incomparable best.’

  ‘Earlier today, you talked only of a second Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘Give me a third, a fourth or even a fifth Edmund Hoode and none of them would hold a candle to you.’

  ‘Saul Hibbert does,’ said Gill, flatly. ‘He holds a dozen candles in both hands to light up the stage with his brilliance.’

  ‘I see none of that fabled brilliance now,’ observed Firethorn, as the playwright strode across the taproom towards them. ‘Master Hibbert looks as if he has sat upon those twenty-four candles of yours before he had the sense to snuff out their flames.’

  Still enraged by his confrontation in the tiring-house, Saul Hibbert was puce and beetle-browed. He ignored the congratulations that were called out to him and charged over to Firethorn.

  ‘I crave a word in private, Lawrence,’ he said.

  ‘There’s privacy enough at this table,’ explained Firethorn. ‘I have no secrets from Barnaby and Edmund. We form the triumvirate that runs the company. If you wish to discuss business, pray do so in front of my honoured fellows here.’

  ‘We were less than honoured when you commissioned Saul’s play,’ recalled Gill, spikily. ‘You did not mention it to either of us.’

  ‘Do you disapprove of my choice?’

  ‘No, Lawrence. The Malevolent Comedy is unsurpassed.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘Then let me put mine,’ said Hibbert, sitting on the empty stool at the table. ‘I want some recompense for providing you with the outstanding play of your season.’

  ‘You’ve had your fee in full.’

  ‘I need more than that, Lawrence, and I feel that I’m in a position to demand it. I talk not of money – that’s irrelevant here. I ask only this of you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Dismiss your book holder.’

  The others were so astounded that they could say nothing for a full minute. It was only when Hibbert repeated his demand that Firethorn found his voice. He burst out laughing.

  ‘Get rid of Nicholas Bracewell?’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s like saying that we should disband the whole company. Nick is its heart.’

  ‘Yet he’s only a hired man,’ argued Hibbert.

  ‘And blest are we that were lucky enough to hire him.’

  ‘I take issue with that,’ said Gill, contentiously.

  ‘Do not listen to Barnaby,’ said Hoode. ‘He has never appreciated Nick’s value. Nor do you, Master Hibbert. Did you not see what occurred today? But for Nick Bracewell’s speed in removing a corpse from the stage, your play might have twitched to death like poor Hal Bridger. You owe our book holder some gratitude.’

  ‘All that I owe him is enmity,’ said Hibbert. ‘He insulted me.’

  ‘That does not sound like him. Was there any provocation?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Then why did he speak roughly to you?’

  ‘He did more than speak,’ complained Hibbert. ‘He threw me against a wall and held me by the throat.’

  ‘I beg leave
to question that,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick is the gentlest of men. He’d not hurt a fly. And you tell me that he attacked you?’

  ‘Attacked, insulted and abused me. Dismiss him at once.’

  ‘I’d like to hear his side of the story first.’

  Hibbert was incensed. ‘You’d take his word against mine?’

  ‘Every time,’ said Hoode. ‘And even if he did lay hands upon you, I’m sure that he had a sound reason to do so. Dispense with our book holder? I’d sooner part with Barnaby.’

  ‘I resent that!’ shouted Gill.

  ‘We’ll keep both you and Nick,’ said Firethorn, with an appeasing pat on his shoulder. ‘Rest easy on that score, Barnaby.’

  ‘Do you deny my request, then?’ asked Hibbert.

  ‘A moment ago, it was a demand.’

  ‘You’ll not get rid of your book holder?’

  ‘No,’ said Firethorn. ‘He holds this company together.’

  ‘You had better search for someone else to serve in that capacity,’ warned Hibbert. ‘If you will not throw him out, then I will do so myself with the blade of my sword. He more or less challenged me to a duel.’ Firethorn put back his head and laughed. ‘What is so comical now?’

  ‘The thought that you could kill Nick in a duel,’ said Hoode with a chuckle. ‘Make your will before you lift your weapon because your heirs will be sure to inherit. Am I right, Lawrence?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘It’s Nick who instructs us in swordplay on the stage. He has no equal with a rapier. Do not offer him any other weapon either, Saul, for he is a master with every one of them. Nick Bracewell sailed around the world with Drake in younger days. He was trained to fight with sword, dagger and musket. And there’s no better man to have beside you in a brawl. Fight a duel with him and you commit certain suicide. I think you’d best mend this quarrel with Nick.’

  ‘Never!’ said Hibbert.

  ‘He’s the most reasonable man alive.’

  ‘What he did to me was unforgivable.’

  ‘Yet not without cause, I suspect,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Nicholas does get above himself at times,’ remarked Gill.

  Firethorn grinned. ‘Would you cross swords with him, Barnaby?’

  ‘Not for a king’s ransom!’

  ‘There’s your answer, Saul. Make your peace with him.’

  Hibbert was fuming. On a day when his play had bewitched a full audience, when it had introduced a striking new talent to the capital, when he expected to be feted by everyone he met, he had instead been thoroughly humiliated. Someone was going to pay for it. Rising abruptly from his seat, he stalked out in a temper.

  ‘He’s too rash to be the second Edmund Hoode,’ said Hoode with a contented smile. ‘I’d not dare to challenge Nick to a duel even if his sword were made out of paper. Saul Hibbert may be a clever playwright but he’s no judge of a fighting man. One of us needs to speak to Nick about this.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be me,’ said Gill.

  ‘I’ll gladly take on the role of peacemaker here.’

  ‘You may have to wait a while, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick has other business in hand. He’s gone to speak to Hal Bridger’s family.’

  Nicholas Bracewell did not have far to walk. The Queen’s Head was situated in Gracechurch Street, only a hundred yards or so from the house near Bishopsgate, where Hal Bridger had been born and brought up. The boy’s father was a leather-seller and the family lived over the shop that he had kept for some thirty years. As he entered the premises, Nicholas inhaled the distinctive smell of tanned leather. Like his son, Terence Bridger was tall and slim but there was a hardness in his face that he had not passed on to his only child. Nicholas was surprised to see how old the man was – close to sixty, if not beyond it.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked Bridger, gruffly.

  ‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and I belong to Westfield’s Men. I need to speak to you about your son.’

  ‘I have no son.’

  ‘Are you not Hal Bridger’s father?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘But he always speak of you with such respect.’

  ‘Then it’s a pity he did not show more of it when he was here.’

  ‘Your son loved you.’

  ‘Love is not love if it turns its back on obedience.’

  Nicholas could see that his task was going to be even more difficult than anticipated. Terence Bridger’s stern tone and unforgiving manner marked him out as an enemy of the theatre. Nicholas sensed that the leather-seller had distinct leanings towards Puritanism.

  ‘He made his choice and must live by it,’ said Bridger.

  ‘I can see that he joined us without your permission.’

  ‘He defied both me and his employer. I had him apprenticed to a saddler in Cheapside. It was an honest trade, a chance to work with leather that I supplied. But Hal betrayed his calling. Instead of learning his craft, he was forever sneaking off to watch a play at the Queen’s Head, the Curtain or at that other devilish place in Bankside.’

  ‘The Rose?’

  ‘Theatre corrupted him. It turned a God-fearing young boy into a shameless heathen that I refuse to acknowledge as my own.’

  ‘Hal was no heathen,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘He attended church every Sunday, as do most members of the company.’

  ‘His church was there,’ snapped Bridger, pointing towards the Queen’s Head. ‘He worshipped in that foul pit of iniquity, where painted women consort with evil men to watch disgusting antics upon the stage.’

  ‘I can see that you’ve never actually attended a performance.’

  ‘Nothing would make me do so, sir!’

  ‘Then you condemn out of sheer ignorance.’

  ‘I do so out of Christian conviction,’ said Bridger, thrusting out his chin. ‘If you are party to the profanity that goes upon a stage, you are not welcome in my shop. Good day to you!’

  ‘I’ve not delivered my message about your son yet.’

  ‘He no longer exists. I tell you this, Master Bracewell,’ said the other, eyes glinting, ‘that I’d sooner wish a son of mine in his grave than fall into the clutches of a theatre company.’

  ‘Then your wish has been granted,’ said Nicholas, softly. ‘That’s what I came to tell you – Hal, I fear, is dead.’

  Terence Bridger’s face was impassive. His voice was icily cold.

  ‘He died the moment that he walked out of here,’ he said.

  Owen Elias laughed until the tears trickled down his rubicund cheeks.

  ‘He intended to fight Nick Bracewell in a duel?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘until we warned him against such lunacy.’

  ‘Saul Hibbert would not last a minute. I’m no mean swordsman but I wouldn’t chance my arm against Nick. He moves like lightning. Did you tell that to the reckless author?’

  ‘Saul is too choleric to listen to sound advice.’

  ‘Speak to him when he’s cooled down, Lawrence, or we’ll be bidding an early farewell to him at his funeral.’

  They were still in the taproom at the Queen’s Head, where strong drink had now lifted the prevailing sadness a little. Seeing that Gill and Hoode had left the table, Elias had moved across to join Firethorn for a private talk. The Welshman sipped his ale ruminatively.

  ‘We’ve not had good fortune with new playwrights, have we?’

  ‘No, Owen. I thought we’d found a gem in Michael Grammaticus, but he turned out to be passing off his friend’s plays as his own. And since that friend was no longer alive, we could hope for nothing more from his cunning brain. Nor from dear Jonas Applegarth,’ said Firethorn with deep regret. ‘The poor fellow was hanged by the neck in this very building – though how they found a rope strong enough to bear his weight, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Then there was Lucius Kindell, full of promise, seduced away from us by Havelock’s Men. And was there not one Ralph Willoughby, before my time with the company?’


  ‘Burnt alive during the performance of The Merry Devils.’

  ‘Do all our dramatists have a death wish?’

  ‘One of them does, Owen,’ said Firethorn, seriously, ‘and he’s the man we must discuss. Forget the new and cleave to the old. I’ll do my utmost to keep Saul Hibbert alive to write more plays for us, but my chief concern is for Edmund. He has abdicated his position.’

  ‘Tie him back on his throne and force a pen into his hand.’

  ‘It’s not as easy as that. Edmund has lost all appetite.’

  ‘He’s a creature of moods, Lawrence, as you well know. When his juices flow,’ said Elias, ‘he’ll write all day and night without a break. There’s not a playwright in London who has produced so much work of such high quality.’

  ‘You’d not say that if you read How to Choose a Good Wife.’

  ‘I did read it – the first act, anyway. I lacked the courage to go any further. It made my toes curl with embarrassment.’

  ‘I could not believe Edmund had put his name to it.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Elias, pursing his lips. ‘It was not a new work at all but a collection of everything cut out of his earlier plays, strung untidily together like washing on a line.’

  ‘It contained a frightening message for me, Owen.’

  ‘Yes. Edmund is unwell.’

  ‘Worse – he’s fallen out of love with the theatre.’

  ‘You’ve hit the mark there. Except that it is not only the theatre that has made him jaded. Edmund is out of love. It’s as simple as that. Only when he’s pining for a pretty maid can he write from the heart. We’ve seen it before, Lawrence.’

  ‘Too many times.’

  ‘Edmund is happy in his work when he’s unhappy in love.’

  ‘Then there’s our solution,’ announced Firethorn, snapping his fingers. ‘We must find him a good woman.’

  ‘A bad one would have more chance of exciting his interest,’ said Elias with a grin. ‘She must have enough respectability to lure him and a touch of wickedness to close the trap.’

  ‘Let’s draw a portrait of her in our minds.’