The Malevolent Comedy

Chapter Two

Opinion about the company’s new playwright was sharply divided. When the actors adjourned to the taproom of the Queen’s Head after the first rehearsal of Saul Hibbert’s comedy, they had all reached a very firm conclusion about the author and his work. The taproom was filled with noise and tobacco smoke as Barnaby Gill joined Owen Elias and Francis Quilter at their table. Gill was a walking paradox, a morose, brooding, self-centred man offstage, he turned into a comic delight in front of an audience, genial, outgoing and full of energy. Some of that energy had been put to good use during the rehearsal.

‘It’s a fine play,’ he said, reaching for his Canary wine, ‘and it enables me to be at my finest. I’m grateful to Master Hibbert for that.’

‘He’ll not get my gratitude,’ warned Quilter. ‘I think that Saul Hibbert is an arrant popinjay and that his comedy, like him, is neat and trimly dressed without any real essence. A hollow piece of work.’

‘I fill the void with my dances.’

‘They are mere distractions, Barnaby. Every time our author runs short of ideas, he brings the Clown on to perform a jig. You are simply there to conceal the fact that the play lacks substance.’

‘I disagree, Frank,’ said Elias, keen to take part in the argument. ‘The Malevolent Comedy is the best new offering we’ve had for months. Where I do side with you, however, is in the matter of Saul Hibbert’s character. I found the fellow haughty and irritating.’

‘I like him,’ said Gill.

‘I hate the jackanapes,’ asserted Quilter.

‘Saul has a sharp eye for talent.’

‘You only say that because he applauded you today.’

‘And you only decry him because he said your performance was too shallow and weak-willed. And I’m bound to confess,’ added Gill, waspishly, ‘that I felt the very same. You struggled badly, Frank.’

Quilter was hurt. ‘No, I did not!’

‘We were all floundering at a first rehearsal,’ said Elias, quaffing his ale. ‘I know that I was. Even Lawrence lost his footing in the role a few times. You were better than most, Frank.’

‘I was as good as the play allowed me to be, Owen.’

Quilter was a tall, lean, sharp-featured young man of considerable talent. Proud of belonging to Westfield’s Men, he was dedicated to the troupe. He was also fond of reaping the benefits of appearing in major roles with such an important company, and was never short of female admirers. Elias realised that Quilter’s dislike of Saul Hibbert was partly based on jealousy. No sooner had the handsome playwright moved into the Queen’s Head than he began to capture the attention that formerly went to actors like Francis Quilter. Elias did not feel the threat in quite the same way. A stocky Welshman with a natural ebullience, he was inclined to take people on trust. Hibbert was an exception to the rule. From the moment that they met, Elias knew that he could never befriend the conceited newcomer.

‘He showed no respect for Edmund,’ he complained.

Gill was sour. ‘Edmund does not deserve any at the moment.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

‘Truth is often painful.’

‘So is a punch on the nose,’ said Elias, roused by the insult to his friend, ‘and that is what you’ll get if you disparage Edmund Hoode. Have you so soon forgot all the wondrous plays that he has given us over the years? More than any of us, you have cause to get down on your knees to thank him. His comedies made you.’

‘I’ll bear witness to that,’ said Quilter. ‘Without Edmund, there would never have been a Barnaby Gill.’

‘Calumny!’ howled Gill.

‘Truth is often painful,’ goaded Elias.

‘My art is unique and irreplaceable, a jewel that would shine in any setting. I bow to no playwright. It is I who make their reputations by enhancing their work with my very presence.’

‘No wonder you like Saul Hibbert,’ said Quilter. ‘The two of you are blood-brothers to Narcissus. Each of you has fallen in love with his own image. You spend so much time courting a looking glass that you can no longer see anyone but yourselves.’

‘I recognise bad acting when I see it,’ replied Gill, loftily, ‘and that is what you inflicted on us today, Frank. Learn from my example. Study your part with more diligence and play it with more spirit.’

‘If the role were in any way worthy of me, I’d do so.’

‘Follow in my stead and rise above your role.’

‘You malign Frank unfairly,’ said Elias with truculence, ‘and you were equally unkind about Edmund. Who else will feel the lash of that wicked tongue of yours?’ He bunched a fist. ‘Take care, Barnaby. I’ll not suffer any of your reproaches. Carp and cavil at me and I’ll make that ugly face of yours even uglier.’

Gill was unruffled. ‘Why are the Welsh always so needlessly bellicose?’ he asked with a sigh.

‘Pour scorn on my nation and you’ll answer for it!’

‘Leave off, Owen,’ advised Quilter. ‘Unless he is boasting about himself, Barnaby is ever full of slights and slurs. The wonder is that he has such words of praise for Saul Hibbert.’

‘He has written an excellent play,’ said Gill.

‘Yet when you first caught wind of The Malevolent Comedy, you shrieked like a turkey with a butcher’s hand around its neck.’

‘With good cause. Lawrence chose the play entirely on his own, in direct violation of our policy. Neither Edmund nor I was asked for an opinion.’

‘Nor was Nick Bracewell.’

‘An even more serious omission,’ Elias put in.

‘Nick is only a hired man with the company,’ said Gill, petulantly, ‘and not a sharer like us. His approval does not count.’

‘It does with me.’

‘The point is that Lawrence — not for the first time — exceeded his authority. He went over our heads and I rightly chastised him for doing so, especially as there was another instance of his tyrannical behaviour. He rejected Edmund’s new comedy without even raising the possibility with me. The one person in whom he did confide on that occasion,’ he went on, bitterly, ‘was our book holder.’

‘I have no quibble with that,’ affirmed Elias.

‘Nor me,’ said Quilter. ‘Nick Bracewell can see the defects in a play more acutely than any of us.’

‘You value his judgement, then?’ asked Gill.

‘Above that of anyone else in the company.’

‘Then you’ve surely betrayed him. Where you censure The Malevolent Comedy, Nicholas commends it highly. So do I, won over by its biting wit and merriment. Everyone admires it save Frank Quilter.’

‘I told you, Barnaby. I find the play empty.’

‘Not as empty as Edmund’s How to Choose a Good Wife. That was so full of cavities that we were in danger of falling through them.’

‘Yet you liked it at first,’ challenged Elias. ‘I remember you telling us so. You said that it gave you the chance to dominate the stage.’

‘Every play does that,’ said Gill, grandly. ‘Were I to take on the humblest role in any drama, I would still steal all the glory. And, yes, I did smile upon Edmund’s new comedy but only out of friendship. In all honesty, it really is a barren construction. Place it beside The Malevolent Comedy and it pales into invisibility.’

‘Edmund Hoode is still the better playwright,’ said Elias, loyally.

‘And a truly loveable man,’ said Quilter.

‘You talk of the past but I look only to the future. Edmund was supreme at one time, I grant you,’ conceded Gill, ‘but that time is gone. His star is in decline. We have been carrying him this last year.’

‘That’s unjust,’ protested Elias.

‘Mark my words, Owen. The days when Edmund Hoode wore the laurel wreath are behind us. Westfield’s Men need a sparkling new talent. I believe that we have it in Saul Hibbert.’

‘God forbid!’ cried Quilter.

‘He’s a proven master of comedy.’

‘But that’s not what we crave, Barnaby. Comedy will cheer the ignorant in the pit, and spread some cheap laughter among the gallants, but it will not stir their souls. Only tragedy can do that yet we have abjured it and are set to dwindle into mere comedians. Look to the Curtain,’ urged Quilter. ‘See what great success Banbury’s Men have had with Lamberto. Nick Bracewell says that it outweighed anything that we have presented this year. Tragedy is in demand and we should strive to provide it.’

‘Not when we have something as priceless as The Malevolent Comedy. It will be the envy of our rivals. Saul Hibbert is not just a playwright of rare promise,’ insisted Gill, wagging a finger, ‘he is a saviour in our hour of need.’ The others exchanged a sceptical glance. ‘Laudable as his achievements have been, talk no more of Edmund Hoode. He will soon fade into oblivion. The man we should toast,’ he said, raising his cup of wine, ‘is our redeemer — Saul Hibbert.’

Saul Hibbert stood in the middle of the empty inn yard and gazed at the makeshift stage that was being dismantled. What he saw in his mind’s eye were actors, strutting to and fro in his play, provoking laughter at every turn and winning spontaneous applause. After the modest success of his plays in Norwich and in Oxford, he was ready to test his mettle in the more demanding arena of the capital. Hibbert had no fear of failure. Convinced of his prodigious abilities, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he conquered London audiences. When he closed his eyes, he could hear an ovation filling the dusty inn yard where Westfield’s Men performed. Saul Hibbert’s name was on everyone’s lips.

‘Master Hibbert! Master Hibbert!’

It was also on the thin, down-turned, ulcerous lips of Alexander Marwood, the landlord of the Queen’s Head, a gaunt, wasted man of middle years with sparse hair and a nervous twitch that animated his face. The twitch was currently located at the tip of his nose.

‘Master Hibbert — a word with you, sir!’

Hibbert came out of his reverie to find that he was looking at the unsightly visage of the landlord, nose twitching violently as if not quite sure in which direction to settle. Alexander Marwood loathed actors, detested plays and despised those who wrote them. Though he regarded Westfield’s Men as a form of pestilence, he relied on the income that they brought in. As a consequence, he felt as if he were being crushed between the millstones of revulsion and need. In his codex, theatre was an abomination. Saul Hibbert was as disreputable and unwelcome as the rest of the company. Marwood was characteristically blunt.

‘You are slippery, sir,’ he said with open resentment. ‘Every time I try to speak with you, you wriggle out of my grasp like a fish.’

Hibbert was dismissive. ‘We have nothing to say to each other,’ he replied, flicking a wrist. ‘I am a guest here. You are at my beck and call.’

‘Guests are expected to pay for their rooms.’

‘Did I not give you money on account?’

‘Ten days ago. More rent is now due.’

‘In time, in time.’

‘Now,’ said Marwood, firmly. ‘If you want the best room that the Queen’s Head can offer, you must render up fair payment.’

‘Best room!’ echoed Hibbert with disgust. ‘If that is the finest you have, I would hate to see the others. My chamber is too small, too dirty and too poorly furnished. The linen is soiled and the place stinks almost as much as its disagreeable landlord.’

‘I’ll not hear any complaint against my inn.’

‘Then put your fingers in those hairy ears of yours or I’ll give you a whole catalogue of complaints. The room is unfit for human habitation.’

‘That should not trouble a rutting animal like you.’

Hibbert rounded on him. ‘Do you dare to abuse me?’

‘I state the facts,’ said Marwood, taking a precautionary step backwards. ‘If the room is dirty, then you have brought in the filth, for it is cleaned from top to bottom every day. As for the linen being soiled,’ he added, knowingly, ‘you and your visitors are responsible for that.’

‘Away with you!’

‘Not until I get my money.’

‘You’ll feel the point of my sword up your scrawny arse.’

‘Then I’ll send for officers to arrest you.’

‘I dignify the Queen’s Head by staying here.’

‘You’ve done nothing but drag it down to your own base level.’

‘I’ll not haggle with a mere underling like you,’ said Hibbert as he saw Nicholas Bracewell approaching them. ‘Talk to this fellow instead. He’ll vouch for me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Is that not so, Nick?’

‘What say you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘This cringing knave has the effrontery to demand money from me. Tell him that my credit is good. Rescue me from this hideous face of his.’

‘The landlord is entitled to be paid,’ said Nicholas, reasonably.

‘There!’ shouted Marwood. ‘There’s one honest man among you.’

‘Then you can discuss the matter honestly with him,’ decided Hibbert with a supercilious smile. ‘I’ll not speak another word to you. Nick,’ he said with a lordly gesture, ‘see to this rogue, will you?’

‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Get the whoreson dog off my back.’

‘This sounds like a matter between you and the landlord.’

‘Resolve it, man. That’s what you’re here for, is it not?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, stoutly.

‘You’re a book holder, paid to fetch and carry for the rest of us. So let’s have no more hesitation. Do as I tell you or there’ll be trouble.’

‘I take no orders from you, Master Hibbert.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Marwood, emboldened by the presence of Nicholas. ‘Settle your bill or I must ask you to quit your room.’

‘I’d have more comfort in a pig sty,’ returned Hibbert with a sneer. ‘Now keep out of my way, you apparition, or you’ll live to regret it.’ He pointed to Nicholas. ‘Badger this fellow in my stead. He’ll tell you who and what I am. Nick will solve this petty business in a trice.’

‘Why should I do that?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Because I tell you.’

Saul Hibbert turned on his heel and strode off towards the door to the taproom. Nicholas contained his anger. Upset by the playwright’s cavalier attitude towards him, he resolved to take it up with Hibbert at a latter date. Meanwhile, he had to placate Alexander Marwood, a task he had been forced to undertake many times on behalf of the company.

‘Master Hibbert treats me like a cur,’ wailed the landlord.

‘His manner is indeed unfortunate.’

‘He has brought nothing but trouble since he has been here. If I am not showing a tailor up to his room, I am telling a succession of women — I dare not call them ladies — where they might find him. It’s more than a decent Christian like me can stand.’

‘If he has rented a room, he can surely entertain friends there.’

‘That depends on how he entertains them,’ said Marwood, darkly. ‘When she happened to be passing his chamber last night, my wife heard sounds that brought a blush to her cheek.’

Nicholas doubted very much if Sybil Marwood had passed the room by accident. Knowing the landlady of old, he suspected that she had an ear glued to Saul Hibbert’s door every time he had female company. Marwood’s wife was a flinty harridan, a formidable creature of blood and stone, who had never blushed in her life. Politeness, however, required Nicholas to show a degree of sympathy for her.

‘I’m sorry that your wife has suffered embarrassment,’ he said.

‘She was too ashamed to give me the full details.’

‘I’m surprised that either of you is shocked, however. This is an inn, after all, not a church. You must surely be accustomed to the sound of your guests taking their pleasures in private.’

Marwood gave a visible shudder and the twitch abandoned his nose to move to his right eyebrow, making it flutter wildly like a moth caught in a cobweb. The landlord had not enjoyed any pleasure with his wife since the night their only child had been conceived, a fact that accounted for his deep melancholy. Deprived of any fleshly enjoyment himself, he begrudged it to others. Those with obvious sexual charm, like Saul Hibbert, earned his particular rancour.

‘The man should be gelded,’ he argued.

‘From what you tell me,’ said Nicholas, ‘that would cause upset to number of ladies, and would, in any case, be too harsh a penalty for someone who has not paid his bill. How much does he owe?’

‘Five shillings.’

‘A paltry amount to Master Hibbert.’

‘Then why does he not hand it over?’

‘He will,’ promised Nicholas, ‘when I speak to him. He can well afford it. Master Hibbert was paid handsomely for his new play.’

‘That is another thing. I do not like the title.’

‘Why? What is wrong with The Malevolent Comedy?’

‘It unsettles me.’

‘It may come to reassure you.’

‘In what way?’

‘Audiences have been thin of late,’ said Nicholas, sadly, ‘because we’ve been guilty of putting on meagre fare. Our gatherers took less money at performances while you sold far less beer and food.’

‘It was a matter I meant to take up with you, Master Bracewell.’

‘Our new play may put everything right.’

‘I am more worried about the new playwright.’

‘Give him time to settle in. He is still something of a novice and needs to learn his place. I’ll endeavour to instruct him.’

‘Make him treat me with respect,’ said Marwood. ‘When he talks to my wife, he is all smiles and flattery. I get nought but insults and threats from him. And ask him to change the title of his play.’

‘It is too late to do that. Playbills have already been printed.’

‘Then I fear for the safety of my inn.’

‘You need have no qualms,’ Nicholas told him. ‘You have my word that this is one of the most cunning and spirited comedies we have ever staged here. It will fill the yard time and again.’

‘You said that about The Misfortunes of Marriage.’

‘Another work that was touched with genius.’

‘And what happened to its author, Master Applegarth?’ asked the landlord, ruefully. ‘He was murdered at the Queen’s Head under our very noses. Think of the trouble that caused me.’

‘We all suffered together.’

‘It drove me to despair, Master Bracewell.’

‘Jonas Applegarth did not get himself hanged in order to torment you,’ said Nicholas, sharply. ‘It was a most cruel way to die and we should mourn him accordingly.’

‘I mourn the damage that it did to the reputation of my inn.’

‘The Queen’s Head survived.’

‘But for how long?’ demanded Marwood, anxiously. ‘Master Applegarth was a load of mischief from the start and this prancing peacock, Saul Hibbert, is cut from the same cloth. He is dangerous. I feel it in my water. Your clever playwright is a harbinger of disaster.’

‘I’ll take pains to ensure that he’s not hanged on your property,’ said Nicholas with light sarcasm.

‘Do not jest about it, Master Bracewell. If he continues to put on airs and graces at the Queen’s Head, your Master Hibbert may well finish up at the end of a rope,’ said the landlord, ‘and I’ll be the hangman!’

George Dart had always been the lowliest member of the company in every sense, a diminutive figure, toiling manfully in the background as an assistant stagekeeper, while those with more talent, more presence and more confidence received all the plaudits. Dart accepted his role as the whipping boy for Westfield’s Men with resignation, never expecting to shed it. The arrival of Hal Bridger, however, transformed his existence. Dart was no longer the most junior person in the troupe. Tall, gangly and hopelessly innocent, Bridger was a fair-haired youth whose passion for the theatre was not matched by a shred of histrionic skill. Unable to tread the boards with any style himself, he wanted nothing more than to serve those who could, worshipping actors such as Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill as if they were minor gods.

George Dart finally had someone beneath him, a gullible lad who deflected the mockery away from its usual target. It was Hal Bridger who was now teased, shouted at, sent hither and thither, scorned, ridiculed and given all the most menial jobs. Dart was his friend and advisor. When he saw Thomas Skillen, the irascible old stagekeeper, box the newcomer’s ears, he took his young friend aside.

‘Remember to duck, Hal.’

‘Duck?’

‘Whenever he tries to hit you,’ explained Dart. ‘Thomas’s back is so stiff that he cannot bend. Duck under his hand and he’ll not be able to touch you. Life will be much less painful that way.’

‘Thank you, George.’

‘I should be thanking you. Since you joined the company, Thomas no longer turns his fury on me. It’s aimed at you now.’

‘Only because I deserve it.’

Hal Bridger gave a toothy grin. To be part of such an illustrious theatrical enterprise, he was very willing to endure daily beatings and constant verbal abuse. To be yelled at by Lawrence Firethorn was, to him, a signal honour. At the same time, he did not wish to jeopardise his position by failing in his duties. Guided by Nicholas Bracewell, and helped by Dart, he had become an efficient servant to the company. Bridger had been rewarded with what he saw as the ultimate accolade.

‘I never thought I’d ever be given a role to play,’ he said.

‘You are onstage for less than a minute,’ Dart noted.

‘It will seem like an hour to me, George. I’ll bask in its glow. And I’ll share my precious moment of fame with no less an actor than Master Firethorn. I’ll be in heaven.’

‘It was more like hell to me.’

An unwilling actor at the best of times, Dart had a fatal habit of forgetting his lines, dropping anything that he was carrying and bumping into scenery. Even though confined to tiny roles, he could be a menace. The part assigned to him in The Malevolent Comedy had filled him with his customary apprehension, until Nicholas Bracewell took pity on him and suggested that Hal Bridger might take his place. One man’s intense relief was another’s joy. Day after day, Bridger had rehearsed his single line with alacrity.

‘I will take anything from your fair hand,’ he declared.

‘What?’

‘That’s what I say to Mistress Malevole when I take the potion from her. I know that she is only Dick Honeydew in a wig and skirts, but she is the most convincing lady I ever saw.’

‘Dick is the best of our apprentices,’ said Dart, proudly. ‘He can play queens or country maids with equal skill. Wait until you see him as the Countess of Milan in one of our tragedies.’

Bridger was eager. ‘Will there be a part for me in that?’

‘Several. I played four the last time we performed it.’

‘I’ll buy one of them off you, George.’

‘You can have all four gratis.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bridger, striking a pose. ‘I will take anything from your fair hand.’

‘It will be a clout if Thomas catches you dawdling here,’ warned Nicholas Bracewell, coming up to them with an affectionate smile. ‘The spectators will begin to dribble in soon and the first scene is not set. About it straight.’

The pair of them gabbled their apologies and ran off. They had been talking in the tiring-house, the room at the rear of the stage that was used by the actors during a performance and filled with their costumes. Nicholas checked that all the hand properties were set out in the correct sequence on the table, and was pleased to see that Dart and Bridger had done that job well. He went through the curtain and onto the stage, making sure that they put the settle, chairs and small table in the right positions for the opening of the play. Hal Bridger broke off to stare up in wonder at the galleries.

‘Our patron will be up there this afternoon,’ said Nicholas.

Bridger was overawed. ‘Lord Westfield himself?’

‘He’s coming expressly to hear you, Hal,’ joked Dart.

‘But I only utter a single line.’

‘Make sure that it is loud and clear,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is all we require of you. Except that you do not knock anything over when you fall to the floor.’

‘As I’d be certain to do,’ admitted Dart.

‘Ah, yes,’ Nicholas went on, struck by an afterthought, ‘there is perhaps one thing more, Hal.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Enjoy yourself.’

‘I will, I promise you!’

‘It’s more than I ever managed to do,’ confided Dart.

But his remark was drowned out by Hal Bridger’s happy laughter. The assistant stagekeeper was on the brink of one of the most thrilling experiences of his life and Nicholas was pleased for him. Like everyone else in the company, Hal Bridger could not wait to perform an exciting new play before its first audience. Heaven was at last at hand.

Spectators flocked to the Queen’s Head in droves, spurred on by the promise of novelty and by rumours that they would be present at a remarkable event. The galleries were soon crammed to capacity, the pit a seething mass of citizenry. Food and beer were served in large quantities, putting the watching public in the ideal frame of mind. Saul Hibbert wore a new suit of blue velvet for the occasion, looking more ostentatious than ever as he settled onto his cushion in the upper gallery. While the author of The Malevolent Comedy oozed a conviction that bordered on complacency, the cast was troubled by the doubts and fears that always afflicted them on such occasions.

Veteran actors knew the horrors that could attend first outings of a play. If the work did not find favour, they would be booed, jeered and even be hit by ripe fruit, hurled at them by disappointed spectators. More than one of the new plays they had performed in the past had sunk without trace beneath the wrath of their audience. In two cases, the actors had not even been allowed to finish the play, hounded from the stage by riotous behaviour. While they all had faith in the excellence of The Malevolent Comedy, their confidence was not unmixed with dread.

It was a situation in which Lawrence Firethorn came to the fore. If he had the slightest tremor, it did not show in his face or bearing. As he gathered his company around him in the tiring-house, he was the epitome of poise and assurance. Resplendent in his costume as Lord Loveless, he addressed his actors.

‘Friends,’ he said, solemnly, ‘we have been given an opportunity today that we must seize with both hands. Westfield’s Men have lost something of their lustre and we must repair that loss. Our rivals boast that they are now supreme but we have a new play that can restore all our fortunes. It was Edmund’s joyous comedies that helped to forge our reputation,’ he continued, indicating Hoode, who looked like more like a disconsolate sheep than the proud steward he was supposed to be playing, ‘and we must follow in the tradition that he set for us. I believe that, in Saul Hibbert, we have another Edmund Hoode. Let us show our new author how much we appreciate his work by playing it to the hilt.’ He drew an imaginary sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Onward, lads!’ he exhorted. ‘Onwards to certain victory!’

Buoyed up by their leader’s encouragement, the actors were keen to begin, looking in the mirror for the last time and making final adjustments to their costumes. Edmund Hoode remained forlorn. Wanting the play to succeed, he believed that it would mark the end of his own career as playwright. Nicholas Bracewell went across to slip a consoling arm around his shoulders.

‘There is only one Edmund Hoode,’ he told him.

‘Thank you, Nick.’

‘And we will soon be staging his next matchless comedy.’

‘In truth,’ said Hoode with a wan smile, ‘I’m in no mood to provide humour. My muse has deserted me. She is gone forever.’

Nicholas had no time to reassure his friend. With the play due to start, a signal had to be given to the musicians in the gallery above the stage. A flag was hoisted, a fanfare blared and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. Within a matter of seconds, he got the first titter from the audience. Firethorn glanced over his shoulder at the other actors and beamed regally.

‘Let’s make them laugh until their sides are fit to burst,’ he said.

The Malevolent Comedy secured a firm and immediate hold over the spectators. From a simple plot, Saul Hibbert had built up a complex series of comic effects. Lord Loveless, a wealthy nobleman, was looking for a wife who would marry him for love and not for his money. To that end, he enlisted the aid of Mistress Malevole, a white witch whose potions could achieve magical results. Loveless required her to make three separate women — unattainable beauties until now — swallow a potion that would make them fall instantly in love with him. By courting all three, Lord Loveless could decide which he would take as a wife.

What he did not know was that Mistress Malevole had a malevolent streak that made her give the three women the wrong potion. Secretly in love with Lord Loveless herself, she was not prepared to yield him up to another. One of her rivals was turned into a cat, another believed she was an owl and the third capered around the stage like a monkey. Barnaby Gill complicated matters even more with his clowning, stealing some of his mistress’s other potions to slip into the wine cups of the men.

Edmund Hoode, a stately steward, conceived a passion for his master that led to all kinds of comic friction. Francis Quilter, in the guise of the ancient Martin Oldman, regressed into childhood and became a gibbering infant. Sir Bernard Graball, the rapacious knight played by Owen Elias, took a sip of his wine and became so afraid of women that the very sight of them threw him into a panic. Antidotes that were administered to counter the effects of the potions only made things worse. At one point, everyone in the play thought that they were in love with the Clown. Ironically, the person who most wanted affection was denied it and Lawrence Firethorn revelled in his misery with hilarious consequences. Reviewing the possibilities, he turned on the grinning Mistress Malevole.

‘Am I to marry a cat and spend nine lives, chasing mice and fornicating with black fur? Is that what you offer me? Or would you rather have me wed an owl and pass my nights upon a cold bough, letting my manhood wilt untouched beneath my feathers? My other choice is this moonstruck monkey. How can I mate with such a creature when I cannot even catch her? And what sort of progeny would I father on these zanies? Cats, owls and monkeys! Two of each, bearing my loveless name, going forth into the world to multiply like so many dumb animals, issuing from Noah’s ark. A pox on these freaks of nature! Give me a woman I can love as a woman, and be loved in return by her. Is that too much to ask?’

Mistress Malevole assured him that she would answer his plea, only to create further confusion with another round of potions. In the leading female role, Richard Honeydew, the youngest of the apprentices, showed a delight in merry mischief that earned Mistress Malevole the complete sympathy of the audience. They rejoiced in the endless potions and the multiple changes of character. It was only in the last act that Loveless himself was prevailed upon to drink one of the concoctions himself. Seeing the havoc they had wreaked on others, he insisted that his servant tasted it first and he beckoned Hal Bridger forward.

His moment had arrived. Trembling nervously and with a throat that had suddenly turned into a parched desert, Bridger summoned up all his strength to say the one line that he had been given. He watched Mistress Malevole mix the potion then pour it into a cup. When it was offered to him, he forced a smile.

‘I will take anything from your fair hand,’ he said, bravely.

Accepting the cup, he drank deeply. Bridger was supposed to sway for a few moments before falling gently to the floor. Instead, he let out a cry of agony, flung away the cup and grasped at his stomach with both hands. When he keeled over, he went into a violent paroxysm, arching and kicking with such uncontrollable force that he knocked over the table, spilling its contents across the stage. The audience roared with mirth, thinking it was part of the play that had been carefully rehearsed.

Nicholas Bracewell was not fooled. Watching with dismay from behind the scenes, he knew that Hal Bridger was in real pain. No compassion was shown by the throng. The greater his convulsions, the more the spectators laughed. When he kicked over a chair and sent it cart-wheeling from the stage, there was a round of applause for him. But the hapless servant was no longer acting a part.

He was, literally, dying before their eyes.