The Bawdy Basket

Chapter One

‘A plague on this weather!’ growled Lawrence Firethorn, sinking down on a bench. ‘It will be the death of me, Nick.’

Nicholas Bracewell waited until the next scene in the play was firmly under way before he glanced up from the prompt book. They were in the tiring house at the Queen’s Head, the site of their inn yard theatre, during a performance in front of a packed audience. Nicholas could see that Firethorn was in some distress. His eyes were dull, his breathing heavy, his sturdy frame slack from exhaustion. Playing the title role in Hannibal on a hot summer’s afternoon was proving to be a sustained ordeal. The famous Carthaginian general had just led his army across the frozen Alps, urging them on through a blizzard that existed only in the imagination. While Firethorn and his soldiers pretended to shiver onstage, the sun beat down mercilessly and mocked their snow-covered blank verse. Clad in body armour and helmet, Firethorn felt as if he were being baked alive.

‘Who chose this damnable play?’ he complained.

‘You did,’ said Nicholas with a quiet smile.

‘I must have been mad. August calls for rustic comedies, where we can feast and frolic. Not for martial tragedies that require me to fight a battle every five minutes, and roar down the walls of the enemy’s fortresses.’

‘All goes well,’ noted Nicholas, keeping one eye on the performance.

‘Not with me,’ said Firethorn, removing his helmet to wipe the perspiration from his brow with a forearm. ‘Look at me, Nick! I’m being roasted like a pig on a spit. Sweat comes gushing out of me from every pore. My face is a burning waterfall, my armpits are stagnant pools. There’s a steaming swamp between my thighs and my pizzle lies in the middle of it like a dead lily. God’s tits! How can I duel with Scipio when I’ve no strength to lift a sword?’

‘Owen feels the heat just as much as you.’

‘Which of us will expire from it first?’

‘Stand by for your entrance.’

‘Already?’ groaned Firethorn.

Nicholas raised a hand. ‘Wait but a moment.’

‘Shame on you, Nick! You’re a cruel Nebuchadnezzar, sending me back into the fiery furnace.’ Hannibal put the gleaming helmet on again. ‘I’m supposed to commit suicide at the end of the play, not every time I step out into that flaming cauldron.’

‘Enter!’ said Nicholas, lowering his hand.

Accompanied by four soldiers, Firethorn went storming back onstage to stamp his authority on one more scene. A small miracle occurred. Close to fatigue only a second before, the actor-manager drew on hidden reserves of energy to berate his troops and to instil fresh confidence in them for the conflict that lay ahead. Firethorn strutted with all of his usual arrogance, his voice stronger than ever. The audience responded to his entry with a buzz of expectation. Everyone crammed into the galleries, or standing shoulder to shoulder in the pit, knew that they were in the presence of the finest actor in London. In the part of Hannibal, he had a role that allowed him to display all his gifts and he did so with magisterial control. Whatever his discomfort, Firethorn did not let the spectators get the tiniest glimpse of it. Proud, fearless and peremptory, he looked completely at ease in his armour, ignoring the mischievous rivulets that ran beneath it all over his body.

Nicholas Bracewell paid scant attention to Hannibal. He could rely on Firethorn to surge powerfully on, regardless of the weather. The actor had performed during howling gales, sudden downpours and even a swirling snowstorm in the past. He would not be defeated by the hot embrace of summer. Where he led, others followed. In the guise of Scipio, the ebullient Welsh actor, Owen Elias, was also suffering but nobody would have guessed it from his appearance. Nor did Barnaby Gill, the acknowledged clown of the company, seem troubled in any way, capering nimbly around the stage in one of his celebrated jigs as he lightened the heavy drama with comic interludes. Edward Hoode too, the company’s actor-playwright, appeared to be in his element. Westfield’s Men blossomed in the sun. When they came onstage, they actually seemed to be enjoying the sweltering heat.

There was a single exception and it was he whom Nicholas studied with concern. Francis Quilter was faltering badly. In the important role of Hannibal’s military advisor, he stumbled over lines and forgot crucial moves. At one point, he almost blundered into the mighty general. Nicholas had great sympathy for the young actor. He knew that Quilter was not merely upset by the scorching weather. The latter was distracted by private grief. Something had been gnawing away at him for weeks and he could no longer contain it. His performance suffered as a consequence.

Lawrence Firethorn had no compassion for the actor. He expected sterling support from his company. When he came offstage again, he was in a towering rage.

‘Did you hear that idiot, Nick?’ he cried, dripping with perspiration. ‘Did you see what he almost did out there?’

‘Frank is in difficulties,’ said Nicholas tolerantly. ‘Bear with him.’

‘I’ll do more than that if he bumps into me again. I swear that I’ll run the rogue through with my sword. He’s a walking liability. What ails the fellow?’

‘He has something on his mind.’

‘He should have Hannibal on his mind, for that is the play we perform today. Does he expect to be paid for this afternoon’s mistakes? Even that dolt, George Dart, has given a better account of himself. Heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Frank Quilter is supposed to be my chief advisor in these wars. I’d sooner take counsel from a one-eyed baboon. The creature would be sure to remember more of his lines than Frank.’

‘Be patient with him,’ urged Nicholas.

‘My patience has run dry.’

‘He’ll rally yet.’

‘If he values his life, he will.’

‘Frank is a talented actor.’

‘Then where has his talent fled?’

It was a rhetorical question because Firethorn had to enter the fray once more, and Nicholas had to give other members of the company their cue. The play rolled on with gathering force. Acutely aware of his earlier failures, Quilter made an effort to atone for them. His lines were spoken with more confidence, his movements became more controlled and his general deportment was more appropriate to his role. Instead of garnering unintended laughs, he now earned the respect of the audience. Of more significance to him was the fact that he also retrieved a grudging approval from Firethorn. Instead of staring into eyes that blazed with accusation, Quilter saw a faint gleam of gratitude. Hannibal was impressed by the way that his colleague had markedly improved his performance. The errors vanished. As the tragedy moved into its final act, Quilter was showing his true mettle as an actor.

Nicholas watched it all from his position behind the scenes. He did not envy the actors. Discomfited by the heat himself, he could imagine how much worse it was for the others as they stepped out into the bright sunlight. There was an additional problem for them. Nicholas only caught the faintest whiff of it but the company would have to endure the full impact. Pressed closely upon each other in the pit, hundreds of sweat-sodden, unwashed bodies gave off a fearsome stink, intensified by the bad breath of the standees, and mingling with the odour of fresh manure that came from the stables. Seated in his familiar position in the gallery, Lord Westfield, the troupe’s patron, was holding a pomander to his nostrils, and many of the spectators in the upper levels were sniffing nosegays or pomanders to ward off the stench from below.

Only a performance of the highest quality could make the audience forget the torrid conditions, and Westfield’s Men provided it. With a revitalised Frank Quilter at his best, the play moved into its closing scenes with cumulative power. Firethorn was supreme. Having watched his military triumphs being overturned by the enemy, he felt that suicide was the only way to make a dignified exit. His final speech was truly harrowing. As the erstwhile conqueror collapsed in a heap on the ground, there was a collective sigh of pain, sorrow and regret. It was some time before applause rang out to fill the inn yard.

All discomfort was now forgotten. Actors who had sagged in the stifling heat positively bounded back onstage to bask in the ovation. Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe out with eager strides, holding a position centre stage and bowing in turn to different sections of the audience. His face was now one big, broad, gracious, endearing smile. High above him, surrounded by his effete entourage, Lord Westfield discarded his pomander long enough to clap his gloved hands enthusiastically together. Hannibal was among his favourite plays and he was delighted with the way in which the company that bore his name had acquitted themselves. As the noisome reek rose up from the pit, he resorted to slapping his thigh with one hand while the other held the pomander in place. Heat and stink notwithstanding, it had been a remarkable performance.

Francis Quilter was relieved that it was finally over. He was a tall, slim, wiry, sharp-featured man in his twenties, with a handsome face that lent itself to comedy or tragedy with equal facility. Having discharged his duty, he was preoccupied with more serious concerns. While the others beamed and grinned at the cheering spectators, he remained detached and expressionless. He knew that he had let his fellows down badly in the earlier part of the play but hoped that he had done enough to make amends. A confrontation with Firethorn was inevitable and there would be criticism from other quarters as well. Barnaby Gill, in particular, would voice his displeasure at Quilter’s shortcomings. So would the forthright Owen Elias. A testing time lay ahead for the young actor. The sole support would come from Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder was Quilter’s one real friend in the company, the only person in whom he had confided his grim secret. With Nicholas at his side, he felt, he could face anything, even the wrath of an enraged Lawrence Firethorn.

Nicholas, meanwhile, resolved to protect his friend. When the actors quit the stage at the end of their curtain call, he took Quilter aside to whisper some advice.

‘Keep clear of Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘Is he angry with me, Nick?’

‘Furious.’

‘He has every right to be. I was abysmal.’

‘You were distracted, Frank, that is all.’

‘I was completely lost at the start,’ admitted Quilter. ‘I gabbled the first lines that came into my head.’

Nicholas gave a kind smile. ‘Fortunately, some of them were correct.’

‘Most of them were not. Master Firethorn’s eyes were ablaze.’

‘You vexed him in the extreme.’

‘I thought he was going to strike me.’

The whole company was crowding into the tiring house. Complaining about the heat, most of them tore off their costumes and sat down on the rough wooden benches that were arranged around the walls. Firethorn was the last to leave the stage, preening himself in front of his public before departing with a final wave. When he swept into the tiring house, his mood changed. He glared around the room.

‘Where is that traitor?’ he demanded.

‘Here it comes,’ murmured Quilter, bracing himself for the onslaught.

‘Where is that tongue-tied lunatic who dared to take part in my council of war? I should have killed him in the Alps and left his rotting body to feed the birds!’

‘I am the clown in the company,’ protested Gill, waving a peevish hand, ‘and I was robbed of my just reward. I blame you, Lawrence. You let that gibbering imbecile, Francis Quilter, run amok so wildly with his lines that he provoked more laughter than me. I’ll not stand for it, do you hear?’

‘Be quiet, Barnaby!’

‘Not until you censure an appalling performance.’

‘If you wish,’ retorted Firethorn sharply. ‘You gave an appalling performance, Barnaby, and it’s earned my severest censure.’

‘I was at my peak!’ yelled Gill over the mocking jeers of the others.

‘Then I would hate to see you at your worst.’

‘Francis should bear the brunt of your admonition — not me.’

‘I agree with you there, Barnaby,’ said Owen Elias. ‘I know that Frank is new to the company but he should know the difference between an exit and an entrance by now. If I’d not pushed him off when I did, he would have been party to a debate in the Roman camp. Try to remember whose side you are on, Frank.’

‘I crave your pardon, Owen,’ said Quilter.

‘We’ll need more than an apology,’ resumed Firethorn, determined to upbraid the actor in front of his fellows. ‘To begin with, we need an explanation. How could an actor in whom we have placed such faith betray us so completely?’

Nicholas moved in quickly. ‘Before we hear his answer,’ he said politely, ‘I have some news to report. It concerns the day’s takings.’

‘Nothing is amiss, I hope?’ asked Firethorn anxiously.

‘Not with regards to the money itself. The gatherers did brisk business. Hannibal has made us a tidy profit for us this afternoon. Our efforts were richly rewarded.’ There was a murmur of approval from everyone. ‘No,’ he went on seriously, ‘the problem, I fear, is related to the landlord.’

Firethorn snorted. ‘That death’s head! Marwood is an eternal problem.’

‘He is due to collect the rent from us today.’

‘Then pay him off and keep his hideous visage away from me.’

‘That will not be possible, I fear.’

‘Why? The varlet is not trying to raise his charges again, is he?’

‘He’s in no position to do so.’

‘Then why even bother me with the hated name of Alexander Marwood?’

‘Because I bring sad tidings.’ Nicholas paused to make sure that everyone was listening. ‘The landlord is so ill that he has taken to his bed.’ A spontaneous cheer went up. ‘The rent is to be paid instead to his wife.’

‘Marwood, ill?’ said Firethorn, rocking with laughter. ‘This is wonderful news, Nick. Why did you keep it from us, man? By heaven, I’ll ride to church this very afternoon and pray for the continuance of his malady!’

‘I’ll gladly kneel beside you, Lawrence,’ said Elias, grinning happily. ‘If that miserable devil is abed, we can venture into the taproom with pleasure for once.’

‘Am I authorised to pay Mistress Marwood?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Give the money to that old gorgon and have done with it. Tell her that if her husband has the grace to die of his disease, we’ll gladly open a subscription for his coffin. And I’ll be the first to dance on it.’

The remark unleashed general hilarity. Alexander Marwood, the gloomy landlord of the Queen’s Head, was their sworn enemy, a man who loathed the presence of actors on his premises, yet who welcomed the regular income that they brought in. At the best of times, Westfield’s Men had an uneasy relationship with him and his flint-hearted wife, Sybil. If either of them was laid low by sickness, no tears would be shed on their behalf in the company. It would be seen as a welcome gift to the actors.

‘This calls for a celebration!’ announced Elias. ‘Come, lads! Let’s drink to our deliverance. We’ve sweated enough for one day. It is time to slake our thirst.’

There was immediate agreement. Everyone hurriedly changed out of his costume so that they could troop off to the taproom. Nicholas took care to keep Firethorn talking so that the actor-manager’s ire was deflected from Quilter. When their discussion came to an end, the room was almost deserted. By the time that Firethorn remembered the sins of his military advisor, the miscreant had slipped quietly away.

‘This is your doing, Nick,’ decided Firethorn.

‘What is?’

‘This ruse to distract me so that Frank Quilter could sneak off.’

‘The news about the landlord’s illness was important.’

‘That’s why you saved it until now, you cunning rogue. You used it as a cloak to throw over the misdemeanours of a bad actor.’

‘A good actor, on a bad day,’ corrected Nicholas.

‘I’ll hear no excuses.’

‘Nor will I offer any. I’ll simply say that Frank has learnt his lesson and is duly contrite. It will never happen again. I give you my word on that.’

‘I want to hear the promise from his own mouth.’

‘You will, have no fear.’

Firethorn unclipped his breastplate and tossed it aside. After wiping his face with a piece of cloth, he stared at Nicholas through narrowed lids. The anger had now gone from his voice. It was replaced by curiosity. He scratched his beard ruminatively.

‘You like Frank Quilter, do you not?’

‘I like him as a friend and admire him as an actor.’

‘There was little admire to in his performance today.’

‘I disagree,’ said Nicholas. ‘He may have gone astray at times but he was very conscious of his waywardness. When he found his bearings, he sailed through the rest of the play without a single mistake. Reproach him for his faults, if you must, but give him credit for pulling himself together.’

‘Can the fellow be trusted, Nick?’

‘Without a doubt.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’d stake my life on it.’

‘Look to the man’s history,’ warned Firethorn. ‘Before he came to us, he was a sharer with Banbury’s Men, our deadly rivals. I thought that he joined us to belong to a superior company but this afternoon’s disgrace made me consider a darker motive.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘He was planted on us with deliberation by Giles Randolph.’

‘Never!’

‘Instead of yielding up one of their best actors, Banbury’s Men were putting an enemy in our midst to wreck our best endeavours.’

‘That’s unjust!’ returned Nicholas with vehemence.

‘Is it?’

‘Frank Quilter is proud to be a member of Westfield’s Men. It’s the fulfilment of a dream. He would not willingly inflict damage on us for the world.’

‘Then what was he doing this afternoon?’

‘His mind strayed to other things.’

‘What other things?’

‘It’s not for me to say.’

‘What other things?’ repeated Firethorn, stepping in closer. ‘Come, Nick. I must know. I have responsibility for what happens out there on the stage. If I am to risk letting Frank play with us again, I need to understand the man and be aware of his concerns. Out with it, man! What caused his mind to stray?’

Nicholas glanced around the room. It was now completely empty. He could not go on shielding his friend indefinitely from Firethorn’s chastisement. The best way to help Frank Quilter was to tell the truth. Hands on his hips, Firethorn would clearly settle for nothing less. He raised a challenging eyebrow.

‘Well, Nick?’

‘I must first swear you to secrecy. Frank does not want it noised abroad.’

‘I’ll be as close as the grave.’

‘Then thus it stands,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Frank is sorely troubled by a problem in his family and it preys on his mind.’

Firethorn was scornful. ‘We all have problems in our families,’ he said harshly. ‘Look at me, for example. My wife hounds me from breakfast until bedtime, my children tax me with their incessant demands, and my servants irritate me with their stupidity. I tell you, Nick, in all honesty, there are days on which I regret that I ever surrendered my freedom and married. Here at the Queen’s Head, I’m a bachelor still. Whenever I step upon that stage, I repudiate the very existence of a wife and children.’ Striking a pose, he made a grand gesture with his arm. ‘An actor should have no family.’

‘Frank has no choice in the matter.’

‘When he takes part in a play, his family should disappear.’

‘A disappearance is the source of his grief.’

‘Tell him to pattern himself on me.’

‘His troubles are not related to a wife and children.’

‘Then they are mild by comparison,’ boasted Firethorn. ‘Marriage is the highroad to suffering. It’s nothing but a case of wedding, bedding and woe. What, then, irks Frank Quilter, a single man? Has his mother been robbed of her purse? Does he have a sister who has unwisely parted with her maidenhood?’ His sarcasm deepened. ‘Or is it some more distant family catastrophe? A second cousin who has mislaid his hat, perhaps? A nephew with a speck of dust in his eye?’

‘Something far worse than all these together.’

‘Then tell me — as long as you expect no sympathy.’

‘I ask for nothing but understanding,’ said Nicholas calmly. ‘The reason that Frank Quilter faltered out there this afternoon is quite simple. His father will be executed at Smithfield next week.’

Francis Quilter was in a quandary. Wanting to escape to the privacy of his lodging, he felt obliged to stay at the Queen’s Head in order to make peace with his fellows. If he stole away, he feared, he would only set up resentment among the others, yet if he joined them in their celebrations, he was sure to be the target for ridicule and tart comment. There was no easy way out. Having enjoyed the privileges of being a member of the company, he had to pay the penalties that were sometimes involved. Accordingly, Quilter gritted his teeth and entered the taproom. A flurry of jibes greeted his appearance.

‘Look!’ said Owen Elias, pointing a finger at him. ‘Wonder of wonders! Frank has entered through the correct door for once.’

‘I’ll warrant that he won’t remember the correct lines,’ observed Barnaby Gill.

‘He won’t even remember the title of the play.’

‘Or the name of the playwright,’ sighed Edmund Hoode. ‘When I wrote the tragedy of Hannibal, I thought I was its sole creator. This afternoon, I learnt that I had a co-author, for Frank invented new speeches every time he opened his mouth.’

‘What will you call the piece now, Edmund?’ teased Elias with an arm around Hoode’s shoulder. ‘Hannibal and Quilter?’

‘Quilter and Hannibal,’ decided Gill. ‘For the former conquered the latter.’

‘Not with intent,’ said Quilter with an apologetic shrug.

‘You mean that you could have ruined the play even more?’

‘I offer a thousand pardons to you all.’

Gill was dismissive. ‘It will take more than that to buy off me.’

‘My price is lower,’ said Elias, downing his ale in one monstrous gulp. ‘Fill up my tankard, Frank, and we are friends again.’

‘Gladly!’ agreed Quilter.

‘You do not need to spend your way into my good graces,’ said Hoode. ‘Though you stumbled through the first half of the play, you trotted through the rest with the grace of an Arab stallion. The final scene has never been played with more poignancy, even though I’ve taken your role myself on more than one occasion. Welcome to the company, Frank! We are glad to have you.’

‘Yes,’ added Elias with an affectionate chuckle, ‘there’s no shame in what you did. None of us is perfect. We all have poor days upon the boards.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Gill with disdain.

‘All of us except Barnaby,’ joked the Welshman.

‘Consistency is the mark of true art.’

‘Is that why you have nothing but poor days?’

Gill’s apoplectic reply was lost beneath the guffaws of his fellows. While they praised his comic skills onstage, they detested his self-glorification whenever he left it. Gill was far too arrogant and condescending. Firethorn and Elias were the only two members of the company who were able to pierce his pomposity with a verbal rapier thrust. Such moments were savoured by the others. A servingman was called and fresh ale was ordered by Quilter for his friends. The taproom was now full. Hot weather was good for business. Spectators who had sweated in the sunshine were zealous customers, their numbers swelled by the arrival of the actors. The atmosphere was convivial, the noise increasingly deafening. Quilter squeezed into a place on the oak settle between Hoode and James Ingram, one of the younger sharers. He felt accepted again. He was one of them. His mind was still preoccupied with the fate of his father but he was grateful that he had elected to join the other actors. They were his family now.

Edmund Hoode did not linger. After finishing his drink, he made his apologies and rose to leave. Elias tried to persuade him to stay.

‘Toast your success, Edmund,’ he urged. ‘Hannibal was a triumph.’

‘Thanks to my fellows,’ said Hoode modestly. ‘Plays are nothing but words on a blank page. Only actors can breathe life into them.’

‘You are an actor yourself, remember. You took your part.’

‘And I was happy with the result, Owen. But now, I must leave you.’

‘When the carousing has not yet begun?’ asked Ingram.

‘Yes, James. I have an appointment elsewhere.’

‘An assignation, more like,’ said Elias, nudging his companion. ‘Who is she, Edmund? Only a beautiful woman could tear you away from us. What is the divine creature called?’

Hoode smiled. ‘Thalia,’ he confessed.

‘A bewitching name for a mistress.’

‘She occupies my brain rather than my bed, Owen,’ explained the playwright. ‘Thalia is the muse of comedy and idyllic poetry. It is to her that I fly.’

Brushing aside their entreaties to stay, Hoode made his way to the door.

‘Is Edmund at work on a new play?’ wondered Quilter.

‘Yes,’ replied Ingram. ‘He is contracted to write a number of new pieces for us each year, as well as to keep old material in repair. Truly, he is a marvel. No author in London is as prolific. Words seem to flow effortlessly from his pen.’

‘It’s one of the reason I sought to join Westfield’s Men. Your stock of plays outshines all others. Banbury’s Men had no Edmund Hoode to supply fresh work of such a high standard.’

Gill flicked a supercilious hand. ‘It has no Barnaby Gill either.’

‘Then fortune has favoured them,’ said Elias waspishly.

‘I suspect that this latest play of Edmund’s is something of note,’ said Ingram. ‘He has been working on it for weeks and has shunned our fellowship many times.’

‘What can it be that it absorbs him so completely?’ wondered Quilter.

Elias looked up. ‘Here’s the very man to tell us,’ he said, seeing Nicholas Bracewell pushing his way through the crowd. ‘Come, Nick. There’s room on the settle for you, and George can sit on my knee.’

George Dart recoiled at the suggestion, even though it was made in fun. As the smallest, youngest and least experienced member of Westfield’s Men, the assistant stagekeeper had become its familiar whipping boy. He was a willing labourer. While the actors were relaxing in the taproom, Dart had been busy. Under Nicholas’s supervision, he had helped to put away the costumes and properties, and clear the stage of its scenic devices before dismantling it. The oak boards on which Hannibal had trod were put away with the barrels that had supported them. Trotting at the heels of his master, Dart had accompanied Nicholas when he paid the rent to Sybil Marwood and enquired after her husband’s health. Only now could the two of them join their fellows in the taproom.

Nicholas took the place vacated by Hoode and Dart found a corner of a bench on which he could perch. Drink was ordered for the newcomers. After the usual badinage, Elias returned to his theme.

‘What is this new play that Edmund is writing for us?’

‘He will not tell us, Owen,’ said Nicholas.

‘Is it comedy, tragedy or history?’

‘A mixture of all three, from what I can gather.’

‘He said that Thalia was his inspiration,’ recalled Quilter.

‘Then the drama will tilt more towards comedy.’

‘Has he given you no hint of its content, Nick?’ asked Elias.

‘None whatsoever, Owen.’

‘Does he have a title?’

‘Of course,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he has kept it from us.’

‘Lawrence must surely know what piece he has commissioned.’

‘All that Edmund will say is that it is to be his masterpiece.’

‘Hannibal could lay claim to that description,’ said Quilter with admiration.

Elias cackled. ‘Not when you are in the cast, Frank!’

The taunt produced more mirth. Even the hapless George Dart joined in the laughter. Nicholas was the only person to give Quilter a look of sympathy. He was pleased to see that the actor had joined the others in the taproom, knowing that he would encounter a degree of hostility. It showed that Francis Quilter had courage. He endured the latest sniggers with a philosophical smile. Attention shifted to Dart.

‘Frank was not the only person at fault,’ said Elias, switching his gaze to the diminutive figure. ‘You remembered the few lines you had, George, but you were so clumsy on the stage today. You knocked over a stool, kicked over the camp fire and dropped the sword during the execution of the prisoners.’

‘He committed a graver sin than that,’ insisted Gill.

Dart was trembling. ‘Did I?’

‘Yes, you stood between me and the audience during my jig. You obscured their view of my dancing. That was unforgivable.’

‘George soon corrected his error,’ said Nicholas defensively.

‘It should never have occurred in the first place.’

‘Nor should the jig,’ goaded Elias. ‘It has no place in a drama of that nature.’

Gill was outraged. ‘My dances are appropriate in any play.’

‘Not when they delay the action, Barnaby.’

‘They serve to heighten the suspense.’

‘Tragedy needs no prancing Fool to diminish its power.’

‘I diminish nothing, Owen. I strengthen the force of a drama.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Dart, relieved that the conversation had moved away from him. ‘Master Gill prances so well. It is a delight to see him.’

‘Thank you, George,’ said Gill, partially mollified.

‘I am sorry if I hindered you in any way.’

Elias patted his knee. ‘No apology is needed, George. If you obscured Barnaby’s antics from the audience, you did them all a favour.’

Gill rose to his feet. ‘That’s an unpardonable slur on my genius!’

‘Our only genius carries the name of Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘A floundering apprentice beside me,’ said Gill, then he flounced off.

‘How easy it is to ruffle his fine feathers!’ said Elias.

Hauling himself up, the Welshman sauntered off to relieve himself. James Ingram chatted to George Dart, reassuring him that his mistakes that afternoon had only been minor ones and advising him to ignore complaints from Elias and Gill. Nicholas was free to have a confidential word with Quilter.

‘How do you feel now, Frank?’ he asked.

‘As tormented as ever.’

‘You were a Trojan to get through the performance today.’

‘A useless one, however,’ said Quilter sadly. ‘But where is Master Firethorn? I expected him to come charging in here like an angry bull to toss me on his horns.’

‘You’ve been spared that.’

‘How?’

‘I told him something of your troubles. Don’t worry,’ he went on quickly, seeing the alarm in Quilter’s face. ‘He can be trusted to say nothing. Master Firethorn deserved to hear the truth. It took all the fury out of him.’

‘That’s some relief at least.’

‘It was wrong to keep it all to yourself, Frank. We share our problems here.’

‘I was too ashamed to share the tidings.’

‘Why? You told me that your father is innocent.’

‘No question of it, Nick.’

‘Then he goes to his death unjustly.’

‘And long before his time,’ said Quilter, wincing at the thought. ‘Father is still in his prime. It’s cruel to cut a man down like that.’ He glanced at the others. ‘But you speak aright. It was folly to keep it secret from my fellows. They’ll know the horrid truth soon enough.’

Nicholas put a consoling hand on his arm. Ingram asked the book holder about the plays to be performed in the coming week and all four of them began to discuss their relative merits. Elias rejoined them to add his pertinent comments. Quilter took a full part in the debate. Enthusing about plays helped to take his mind off his father’s predicament. Nicholas was glad to see the frown vanish from Quilter’s face at last. The actor was an intelligent critic with a persuasive manner. He was caught up in the discussion until The Loyal Subject was mentioned.

‘I do not know the piece,’ he said.

‘It is a wondrous drama,’ announced Dart, eyes widening. ‘One of the best that Master Hoode has ever written. We performed it at Court. Her Majesty thought that The Loyal Subject was magnificent.’

‘Every Queen relies on loyal subjects,’ remarked Ingram.

‘What is so special about the play, George?’ asked Quilter.

‘It is so exciting,’ said Dart. ‘It ends with the most thrilling execution.’

Elias grinned. ‘Why? Is Barnaby Gill beheaded? I’d pay to see that blessing.’

‘So would I,’ added Ingram.

‘The death was so frightening,’ said Dart, ‘that I could not bear to look.’

‘Then you have never seen a real execution, George,’ said Elias. ‘You have never stood at Tyburn or Smithfield, as I have. It is an education. The best way to gauge a man’s true character is to see how he bears himself at the hour of his death. Take the execution of Anne Brewen and John Parker, for instance.’

‘Need we dwell on such things, Owen?’ said Nicholas.

‘I merely wish to show George what he missed.’

‘And was glad to do so,’ said Dart.

‘Anne Brewen and John Parker were lovers, who plotted to murder her husband. John Brewen was a goldsmith, a blameless man whose only crime was to love his wife too much. With the help of her lover, his wife poisoned him and he died in agony. It was only right that the murderers did likewise. Do you know how they died, George?’

Dart shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that I want to.’

‘Anne Brewen was burnt to death while John Parker was hanged before her eyes. I was in the crowd when it happened,’ said Elias, unaware of the effect he was having on Quilter. ‘They were evil killers and deserved their fate. Everyone cheered to the echo when the villains went to their deaths. They were made to suffer.’

Dart gulped, Ingram turned away in disgust and Nicholas flashed a look of disapproval at Owen Elias. But the most dramatic response came from Quilter. As he started to retch aloud, he held a hand over his mouth then leapt up from his seat to dash out of the taproom at full speed. The Welshman was taken aback.

‘What did I say?’ he wondered.

Edmund Hoode hurried through the crowded streets with his mind racing. Others might think that his plays jumped full-grown on to the page, but he knew the truth of the matter. Each new drama made huge demands on him. Days of concentration were needed before he could even force himself to pick up his goose quill, then weeks of hard, unremitting work ensued, during which he invariably lost faith in the project in hand and fell back on extensive revision of the text. Additional changes would be necessary when Lawrence Firethorn read the new play, and Hoode always sought the opinion of Nicholas Bracewell as well. Only when the piece had its premiere at the Queen’s Head could he start to relax, like an exhausted mother who has given birth after an interminable labour. To someone like Hoode, the creative act was a painful and debilitating experience.

What made The Duke of Verona so special was that it was attended by none of the usual problems. There had been no doubts, no uncertainties, no descent into black pessimism. The physical effort of writing had not left him with his habitual pallor and bloodshot eyes. Instead of approaching each session at his table with trepidation, he could not wait to get back to work. The Duke of Verona filled him with an elation he had not known since he secured his first commission from Westfield’s Men. It was a comedy with dark undertones and moments of wild farce. Hoode brought such enthusiasm to the play that it seemed to write itself. He was in the grip of an obsession. It made for difficulties with his fellows because he was always rushing away from them after a performance, but he knew that they would forgive him when they saw the masterpiece that he would shortly deliver. The end justified the means. Edmund Hoode would go to any lengths to finish The Duke of Verona.

As he strolled along, he was rehearsing the next scene in his mind, inventing speeches that would roll off the tongue, and which combined poetry with meaning in the most effective way. So preoccupied was he with the duologue between the Duke and his intended bride that he did not realise that he was being followed at a discreet distance by a well-dressed youth. When he got to his lodgings, Hoode did not toss even a casual glance over his shoulder. He simply went straight into the house, clattered up the stairs and let himself into his room. The Duke of Verona awaited him, scattered across the table on dozens of sheets of parchment, patient, welcoming and inspiring. Hoode did not hesitate. Lowering himself onto his stool, he took up his pen and sharpened it with a knife before dipping it into the inkhorn. The first bold words of the new scene dropped onto the page.

‘Master Hoode!’

He did not even hear his landlady’s voice outside the door.

‘I have a letter for you, sir!’ she called.

When there was no response, she knocked on the door before opening it.

‘Excuse this interruption, Master Hoode,’ she said.

It was only when her shadow fell across his table that he became aware of her presence. Because she was a pleasant and amenable woman, Hoode enjoyed a warm relationship with his landlady. Understanding the nature of his work, she knew that he hated to be disturbed. He was angry that she had done so, all the more since the creative impulse was at its most urgent. Before he could scold her, however, she thrust the letter into his hands and backed away.

‘The young man said that it was very important, sir,’ she explained, ‘or I would not have dared to come into your room like this.’

‘Young man?’ he said.

‘He called a moment ago. You must have heard him knock.’

‘I heard nothing.’

‘But he pounded so hard on my front door.’

‘When I am writing a play, I would not hear the report of a cannon. I thought that you appreciated that. Isolation is vital for a dramatist,’ he said pointedly. ‘I place myself beyond knocks on the door and missives that claim to be important.’

‘Of course, Master Hoode,’ she said penitently. ‘Forgive me, sir, I beg you.’

Backing out of the room, she closed the door behind her as silently as she could. He was sorry that he had had to chide her but The Duke of Verona had prior claims. Tossing the letter aside, he bent over his table once more, intending to resume at the point where he had stopped. But the spell had been broken. Instead of streaming from his pen, words came out haltingly. They lacked fluency and bite. Soaring poetry was now reduced to dull prose. Witty repartee was replaced by stale humour.

Hoode was too kind a man to blame it solely on his landlady. She had only done what the messenger had requested and the letter might, after all, be important. As long as it lay unopened, it would be an irritating distraction, something that lay at the back of his mind to impede his creative endeavour. Once read, it could be cast aside. Hoode picked it up, glanced at the seal then inhaled the bewitching aroma of perfume that rose from the letter. When he opened it out, he found himself looking at neat calligraphy. The contents were startling. His eyes widened in surprise as he read the missive. It brought him to the verge of a blush. A beatific smile settled on his face. When he read it through for the second time, his heart began to beat audibly. Hoode let out an involuntary laugh. The third reading was slower and more indulgent, giving him time to relish the honeyed phrases.

He reached for his pen but it was not to continue work on the play. He was drafting a reply to the letter. The Duke of Verona was completely forgotten now.