The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Read online

  Being married to one of the finest actors in England was an experience which would have cowed most wives but Margery Firethorn rose to the challenge splendidly. She was a woman of strong character with a Junoesque figure, an aggressive beauty and a bellicose charm. There were four apprentices to look after as well as two small children of her own and occasional lodgers from the company, and she ran the household with a firm hand and a fearless tongue.

  She enjoyed a tempestuous relationship with her husband and they shuttled at will between loathing and love, so much so that the two extremes sometimes became interchangeable. It made the house in Shoreditch a lively place.

  ‘Who is she, Barnaby?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Lawrence is smitten again.’

  ‘Only with you, Margery,’ he said with mock innocence.

  ‘I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘Marriage has many ailments.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  He rolled his eyes and gave her a disarming smirk. It was Sunday and Barnaby Gill had called at the house, ostensibly to pay his respects, but chiefly to feed her suspicions about the existence of a new amour in her husband’s life. When she pressed him further, he deployed innuendo and denial with such skill that he confirmed all she had guessed at. Smug satisfaction warmed him. It was always pleasing to spread marital disharmony.

  The performance of plays was forbidden on the Sabbath and not even the reckless Firethorn was ready to flout that ruling within the City walls. Lord Westfield’s Men had a nominal day of rest though it rarely worked out like that.

  Barnaby Gill glanced around and tried to sound casual.

  ‘Is young Dick Honeydew at home?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I wanted a word with the lad.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Margery Firethorn had got his measure the first time that she had ever met him. Though she liked him and found him amusing company at times, she never forgot the more sinister aspect of Barnaby Gill and it brought out her protective instinct.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He was going to sword practice.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Nicholas promised to instruct him.’

  ‘The boy should have come to me. I’d have taught him to thrust and parry. Where is this instruction taking place?’

  ‘I cannot tell you.’

  ‘Would any of the other lads know?’

  ‘They are not here, Barnaby.’

  ‘I see,’ said the other, angry at being baulked. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is getting above himself. Dick is apprenticed to Edmund Hoode and it’s he who should bear the responsibility for the boy’s training. It should not be left to a menial like a book holder.’

  ‘Nicholas is much more than that,’ she replied with spirit. ‘You do him a grave disservice. As for Edmund, he’s so busy with this latest play of his that he has no time to spend with the child and is grateful for any help.’

  Though she was kept very much on the fringe of events, Margery Firethorn could see how much the book holder contributed to the running of the company, but that was not the only reason why she rushed to his defence. She was particularly fond of him. In a profession with more than its share of self-importance and affectation, he stood out as a modest soul and a true gentleman.

  ‘I will bid you farewell,’ said Gill.

  ‘Good day, Barnaby.’

  ‘And remember what I told you.’

  ‘About Lawrence?’

  ‘There is no other lady in his life.’

  His tone made it quite clear that there was. Having assured Firethorn of a stormy reception when next he came home, Barnaby Gill took his leave. As he walked abroad through the streets of Shoreditch, he thought about the pleasures there might be in instructing Richard Honeydew how to use a sword and dagger. An opportunity would surely come one day.

  Margery, meanwhile, turned to her household duties. She was in the middle of upbraiding the servant girl when there was a loud banging at the front door. A breathless George Dart was admitted. Margery glared down at him and the diminutive stagekeeper cowered in fear.

  ‘Why do you make such noise at my door?’ she demanded.

  ‘Master Bracewell sent me,’ he said between gulps for air.

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To fetch Dick Honeydew.’

  ‘He’s already gone.’

  ‘Are you sure, mistress? He has not turned up for sword practice. Master Bracewell has waited over an hour.’

  ‘The boy left the house around ten.’

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘No, but I heard him go with the others.’

  A frown settled on her forehead as she tried to puzzle it out, then she grabbed George Dart by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs.

  ‘We’ll soon sort this out,’ she promised.

  ‘Dick is never late as a rule.’

  ‘There has to be an explanation.’

  Having reached the first landing, she went along to another small flight of stairs. When Richard Honeydew had first moved in, he had slept in the same room as the other apprentices and suffered nightly torments. Margery had moved him up to an attic room on his own, and it was to this that she now hurried.

  ‘Dicky!’

  She flung open the door but the room was empty.

  ‘Dicky!’ she called again.

  ‘Where can he be, mistress?’

  ‘Not here, as you see. Dicky!’

  Her third shout produced a response. There was a muffled thumping from somewhere nearby. Dart’s elfin face puckered.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Listen!’

  ‘There was a—’

  ‘Shhhh!’

  They waited in silence until more thumping came. Margery went out into the passageway and soon tracked it down. There was a small cupboard under the eaves and its rough wooden door was vibrating with each sound. George Dart was terrified but Margery plunged on, seizing the handle and throwing open the door with a flourish.

  ‘Dick!’ she cried.

  ‘God in heaven!’ exclaimed the stagekeeper.

  Richard Honeydew was not able to answer them. Completely naked, he was lying bound and gagged on the bedding that was stored in the cupboard. His eyes were pools of horror and his cheeks were puce with embarrassment. Both his heels were bruised from their contact with the timber.

  Margery Firethorn plucked him to her bosom and held him in a maternal embrace. As her mind began to devise a punishment for this latest prank of the other apprentices, something else flitted across it to make her catch her breath.

  What if Barnaby Gill had been the one to find him?

  Alexander Marwood was unrepentant. As landlord of a busy inn, he had countless duties to attend to and he was always working under intense pressure, not to mention the dictates of a nagging spouse. He saw it as no part of his job to be tactful in passing on bad news. When Susan Fowler came to him, he simply delivered a plain message in a plain way.

  ‘What was wrong with that?’ he asked.

  ‘Common decency should tell you,’ replied Nicholas.

  ‘The man’s dead, isn’t he? No helping that.’

  ‘Perhaps not but there’s a way of helping his widow.’

  ‘I told her the truth.’

  ‘You hit her with it.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I do,’ accused Nicholas.

  Marwood’s face was in its usual state of wrinkled anxiety but there was no hint of apology in its folds and twitches. It was useless to take him to task about the way that he had met Susan Fowler’s enquiry. Here was a man who gravitated towards misery and positively rejoiced in being the bearer of bad tidings.

  After a final word of reproach, Nicholas Bracewell turned on his heel and walked across the taproom. He did not get very far. A familiar figure was obstructing his path.

  ‘Good morning, Master Bartholomew.’


  ‘Hello, Nicholas.’

  ‘I did not think to see you at The Queen’s Head again.’

  ‘Times have changed,’ admitted the poet. ‘I have a favour to ask of you. I know that you will oblige me.’

  ‘I will do my best, sir.’

  Roger Bartholomew pulled out the manuscript that was tucked under his arm. He handled it with the reverence that is only accorded to holy writ. Pride and pain jostled for supremacy in his expression and Nicholas could see just how much effort it had cost him to return to the scene of his earlier dejection. The young scholar inhaled deeply before blurting out his request.

  ‘I wanted you to show this to Master Firethorn.’

  ‘A new play?’

  ‘It is a vast improvement upon the last one.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘If you could persuade him to read it, I’m sure that he will discern its quality.’

  ‘We are not looking for a new play at the moment.’

  ‘You will be unable to refuse An Enemy Routed.’

  ‘But we do not purchase much new work,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Most of our pieces come from stock. Westfield’s Men only stage six or seven new plays a year.’

  ‘Ask him to read it,’ urged Bartholomew, handing the precious manuscript to him. ‘It tells of the Spanish Armada.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It is a celebration of a supreme achievement.’

  ‘That may be so, Master Bartholomew, but …’ Nicholas searched for a way to let him down lightly. ‘It is a popular subject these days. Many authors have been inspired to write dramas that deal with our triumphs at sea. As it happens, Edmund Hoode is writing a play for us on that selfsame theme.’

  ‘Mine is the better,’ asserted Bartholomew.

  ‘Possibly, sir, but Gloriana Triumphant has been contracted.’

  ‘It has a base title.’

  ‘Have you thought of offering your play to another company?’

  ‘I bring it to you first.’

  ‘It may get a fairer hearing elsewhere.’

  ‘The leading role was written with Lawrence Firethorn in mind,’ said the poet. ‘It’s the part of a lifetime for him.’

  ‘Why not try the Queen’s Men?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘They commission more new plays than we can afford. So do Worcester’s. Of course, the most appropriate company would be the Admiral’s Men.’

  Roger Bartholomew’s face fell. He had learned much about Greek, Latin, Poesy and Rhetoric at Oxford but nothing whatsoever about the art of dissembling. His countenance was an open book in which Nicholas read the pathetic truth. An Enemy Routed had been taken around every dramatic company in London and rejected by them all, including the children’s companies. Far from being at the top of the list, Westfield’s Men were essentially a last resort, a final, desperate bid by a young poet with a burning conviction of the merit of his work.

  Nicholas knew that there was not even the slightest possibility that the company would take the play, but he had too much compassion to crush the author’s hopes there and then.

  ‘I will see what I can do, Master Bartholomew.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you!’

  ‘I make no promises, mark you.’

  ‘I understand that. Just put my work into his hand.’

  ‘It may be some little while before he reads it.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  Bartholomew squeezed his arm in gratitude then headed quickly for the exit. Nicholas glanced down at the manuscript and saw the list of dramatis personae. Those names alone told him that the piece was unactable in its present form. It might be a kindness to protect the author from the kind of searing comments that Firethorn was likely to offer, but Nicholas had given his word and he would hold to it.

  He went through into the yard to make sure that everything was in order for the morning rehearsal. The stagekeepers broke off from their chat when they saw him and busied themselves at once. Samuel Ruff was talking in a corner to Benjamin Creech, another of the hired men. Nicholas waved Ruff over to him. Since his visit from Susan Fowler, he had had no chance to speak to the other alone. When he described what had happened, Ruff was as amazed as he had been. There was a tide of regret in his voice.

  ‘Will Fowler married? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither could I.’

  ‘He said nothing.’

  ‘Not even a hint between old friends?’

  ‘No,’ replied Ruff. ‘And we drifted apart for so long. Will Fowler! I’d never have thought him serious-minded enough to take a wife. And such a young, untried girl at that.’

  ‘It has been an ordeal for her.’

  ‘Is she still at your lodging, Nick?’

  ‘She travels back to St Albans today,’ explained the other. ‘Susan is in good hands. A close friend of mine will see her safely on her journey.’

  Anne Hendrik had treated the girl like a daughter and helped her through the first difficult days of mourning. A widow herself, she knew at first hand the deep pain and the numbing sense of loss that Susan felt, though she could only guess at how much worse it must be to have a husband violently cut down in a brawl. Nicholas had been touched to see how Anne had opened her heart to their young guest and it had deepened his affection for his landlady. Susan’s visit had also given him paternal feelings that surprised him.

  ‘Do you know where the girl lives?’ asked Ruff.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I would like to know. One day, I might just find myself in that part of the country. If I stay in this verminous profession, anything can happen.’ A grim smile brushed his lips. ‘The truth is that I’m curious to meet her. Anyone who can take Will Fowler as a husband must have rare qualities.’

  ‘Oh, she does.’

  ‘He was not the easiest man to live with.’

  ‘No. Did Will ever talk to you about his faith?’

  ‘Only to curse it now and again in his cups.’

  ‘He was of the Church of Rome.’

  ‘What?’ Ruff was thunderstruck. ‘That is impossible.’

  ‘So was his marriage.’

  ‘But he never showed any inclination that way.’

  ‘He was an actor, Sam. I think he had been giving us all a very clever performance for some time.’

  ‘But the Romish persuasion …’

  He shook his head in wonder. Life in the theatre was likely to turn a man to anything but religion, still less to an exiled faith for which its martyrs were still dying the death of traitors. Samuel Ruff was dazed. Having enjoyed a friendship with someone for many years, he was now learning that it was founded on deceit. It hurt him to think that he had been hoodwinked.

  ‘Nicholas,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I will let you know when I find out.’

  There was only one thing worse than the extended agony of writing Gloriana Triumphant and that was waiting for Lawrence Firethorn to read it and pass judgement. He did not mince his words if he had criticisms and Edmund Hoode had suffered many times at his hands. As he waited for his colleague to dine with him at The Queen’s Head, he sipped a glass of malmsey to fortify himself. He was of a different cast from Roger Bartholomew. The latter was an inexperienced playwright who believed that everything he wrote was superb; Hoode was an author of proven worth who became more uncertain of his talent with each play he wrote.

  Firethorn made an entrance and posed in the doorway. His brow was troubled and his eyes malevolent. Fearing the inevitable, Hoode drained his cup of malmsey in one urgent gulp.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Edmund,’ muttered Firethorn as he took his seat at the table. ‘I was delayed.’

  ‘I’ve not been here long.’

  ‘It has been a devilish day. I need a drink.’

  Hoode sat there in silence while the wine was ordered, served and drunk. His companion was in such a foul mood over the play that he wondered if anything about it had given pleasure. Though he had been forced into
developing a romance, it had actually enriched the drama and become an integral part of it. He had at least expected Firethorn to approve of that.

  ‘Are you in love, Edmund?’ growled the other.

  ‘In love?’ The question caught him off guard.

  ‘With a woman.’

  ‘I have been. Many times.’

  ‘Have you ever considered marriage?’

  ‘Often.’

  ‘Never do so again!’ warned Firethorn, using his hand like a grappling iron on the other’s wrist. ‘It’s a state of continual degradation for a man. The bridal bed is nothing but purgatory with pillows!’

  Hoode understood. Margery had found him out.

  ‘What has your wife said, Lawrence?’

  ‘What has she not? She called me names that would burn the ears off a master mariner and issued threats that would daunt a regiment of soldiers.’ He brought both hands up to his face. ‘Dear God! It is like lying with a she-tiger!’

  More wine helped Firethorn to recover from his wife’s accusations and molestations. The irony was that nothing had so far happened between him and Lady Rosamund Varley apart from an exchange of glances during his performance on stage. The actor was being drawn and quartered for an offence that had not yet been committed but which, in view of Margery’s venomous attack, he would now advance to the earliest possible moment.

  ‘I will need you to write some verse for me, Edmund.’

  ‘Verse?’

  ‘A dozen lines or so. Perhaps a sonnet.’

  ‘To your wife?’ teased Hoode.

  ‘You may compose a funeral dirge for that harridan!’

  Food was ordered. Firethorn was ready for the business of the day. His wife had been the cause of the scowling fury which he had brought into the room. Hoode was relieved. He decided to grasp the nettle boldly.

  ‘Have you read the play, Lawrence?’

  ‘Enough of it,’ grunted his companion.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘A few scenes, sir. That was all I could stomach.’

  ‘You did not like it?’ asked Hoode tentatively.

  ‘I thought it the most damnable and detestable piece ever penned! Dull, stale and meandering without a touch of wit or poetry to redeem it. I tell you, Edmund, had there been a taper nearby, I’d have set fire to the thing!’