The Roaring Boy nb-7

by Edward Marston

  ‘They overpraise me,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am but the book holder. Lawrence Firethorn is our manager.’

  ‘I know his reputation. That is why I came to you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘To you and to Edmund Hoode.’ He looked over at the sleeping poet. ‘Master Firethorn would not listen to me. He is too caught up in himself, too restless a spirit. He is a born actor. Need I say more? You, on the other hand, have more forbearance. Patience.’

  ‘That patience is fast running out, sir.’

  ‘Then I will trespass on it no further.’ An urgency came into his voice. ‘Briefly, my plea is this. Undertake to read something for me. Ensure that Master Hoode reads it as well for he alone can invest it with real life and purpose. If the piece offends you, return it to me forthwith and no harm will have been done. If it please you-and I dare swear that it will set your curiosity alight-then we may talk further.’

  ‘You wish to offer us a play?’

  ‘A semblance of one, Master Bracewell. It is more an idea for a drama than a finished manuscript, and yet it would not take much to mould it into an acceptable shape.’

  ‘Are you the playwright, Master Chaloner?’

  ‘I was involved in the creation of it.’

  ‘A co-author, then?’

  ‘Not quite, sir.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Read the piece first. It speaks for itself.’

  ‘We are given dozens of new plays every year.’

  ‘Not like this one.’

  ‘Do not raise your expectations too high.’

  ‘They are based on my knowledge of Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode. The one will give me a fair hearing and the other will be able to repair the many faults in the play. Together, you would be able to persuade Lawrence Firethorn to take an interest in the project.’

  ‘You presume far too much, sir.’

  ‘This is no rash move on my part, I assure you. I have watched Westfield’s Men for some time. You have qualities that none of your rivals can offer.’ He gave a smile. ‘What is more important, you are ready to take appalling risks.’

  ‘Risks?’

  ‘A man died onstage this afternoon. The play went on.’

  ‘You are very perceptive,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but that particular risk was thrust unsought upon us.’

  ‘You contended with misfortune and won through. Most of the spectators saw nothing amiss but I did. I applaud your skill without reservation. It is one of the main reasons that I chose your company.’

  ‘What are the others?’

  ‘Read the play, sir. Then I will tell you.’

  He undid the fastening on his doublet before putting his hand inside to pull out a thick manuscript. Sheets of yellowing parchment were bound neatly together by a red ribbon. The young man fondled the play for a moment with distant affection before holding it out to Nicholas. The latter felt obliged to issue a warning that he gave to all aspiring authors.

  ‘It will be read in time,’ he promised, ‘but we can give no guarantee of performance. Most of the work submitted to us either falls below the standard required or is simply not suitable for Westfield’s Men. Prepare yourself for disappointment.’

  ‘There is no question of that now that we have met.’

  ‘I have little influence on the choice of plays.’

  ‘You will fight on behalf of this one. Take it, sir.’

  He thrust the manuscript into Nicholas’s hands, then crossed rapidly to the door. The book holder took a few bewildered steps after him.

  ‘Wait, sir. You have not said where you dwell.’

  ‘That is my business.’

  ‘How, then, do we get in touch?’

  ‘I will come to you.’

  ‘But we need more details than that.’

  ‘Find them in the play.’

  Nicholas glanced down at a manuscript that clearly held immense significance for his mysterious visitor. With no small risk to himself, it seemed, Simon Chaloner had gone to great lengths to deliver the play. The veil of secrecy was annoying but it was also intriguing. Not withstanding his suspicions, Nicholas felt his interest quicken.

  ‘What is its title?’ he asked.

  ‘The Roaring Boy.’

  Chapter Three

  Having feasted with the gods on ambrosia and nectar, Lawrence Firethorn suffered grievously for his over-indulgence. When he opened his eyes once more, he was no longer at a banquet on Mount Olympus, sporting with a compliant young nymph. He was twisted like a convolvulus around the ample frame of his wife and a tiny mole was burrowing its way eagerly through his swollen cheek. Connubial delight was at an end. Toothache reigned supreme. Time thereafter throbbed slowly past.

  ‘Fenugreek,’ said Margery later that evening.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fenugreek. That is what the apothecary recommends.’

  ‘A fig for his recommendations!’

  ‘You are still in agony, Lawrence.’

  ‘I do not need to be told that!’ he howled.

  ‘Is not this fenugreek at least worth trying?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Fill the tooth with it, said the apothecary. Hold it in place with wax. In time, he assured me, the ailing tooth would so loosen that you may pluck it out with your fingers.’

  Firethorn bridled. ‘I’ll pluck the apothecary’s stones off with my fingers if he dares inflict that remedy on me! God’s tits! The cure is worse than the disease.’

  It was only a few hours since they had smothered pain beneath a blanket of passion but it seemed like a century ago. When he tried to bestow a fond smile on her, his face remained locked into a lopsided grimace. Firethorn extended a forlorn hand to his wife and she gave it a sympathetic squeeze. She was about to steal away and leave him alone in the flickering light of the bedchamber when there was a loud knocking at the front door of the house.

  ‘Nick Bracewell, I’ll be bound,’ she said.

  ‘Where has the rogue been?’

  ‘I’ll show him in myself.’

  ‘Chide him for his lateness when you do so.’

  ‘He is always welcome here, whatever the hour.’

  Margery went skipping down the stairs with an almost girlish delight and waved away the servant girl who was about to open the door. Nicholas was admitted by the mistress of the house and greeted with an affectionate smile. He doffed his cap politely.

  ‘I am sorry I have been delayed,’ he said.

  ‘We knew that you would come when you could.’

  She gave him a warm hug and pulled him into the house before closing the door. Her voice became conspiratorial.

  ‘Deal gently with him, Nick.’

  ‘How is he?’ whispered the other.

  ‘More comfortable but still in pain.’

  ‘Has a surgeon been sent for yet?’

  ‘He will not consider it.’

  Nicholas glanced upwards. ‘Is he still awake?’

  ‘Yes!’ bellowed Firethorn. ‘Still wide awake and able to hear everything the pair of you are muttering. Send him up here, Margery. Make haste, sir. I have waited long enough.’

  Nicholas smiled and picked his way up the staircase to the main bedchamber of the house. With a lighted candle either side of him, Lawrence Firethorn was propped up on some pillows in his nightshirt like a potentate worn down by the cares of state. He wagged an admonitory finger.

  ‘What on earth has kept you away for so long?’

  ‘Ben Skeat.’

  ‘That news was an aching tooth in itself.’

  ‘We still reel from the shock of it.’

  ‘Have all the arrangements been made?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I engaged the services of an undertaker and spoke to the parish clerk of St Leonard’s. Ben Skeat will be buried beside his beloved wife.’

  ‘When is the funeral?’

  ‘On Tuesday next at ten.’

  ‘The whole company must be there.’

  ‘They will need no ur
ging on that score.’

  ‘No,’ said Firethorn. ‘He was loved and respected by all. How many of us can say that? But let us save our tears for his funeral. Now, tell me what happened.’

  ‘Has not someone already played the messenger?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Barnaby came dancing in here to boast of the way that he had rescued the company from extinction. The villain crowed over me like a very Chanticleer. But when he spoke out of turn to Margery, and told her-would you believe? — to hold her peace, I sent him dancing out again with his ears aflame.’

  ‘He may not have given you the full story.’

  ‘It was a pack of lies from start to finish. He forgot that the apprentices live under my roof. When they got home this evening, their version quarrelled with Barnaby’s in every particular.’ He gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Dick Honeydew was the most trustworthy. The lad was still shaking like an aspen at the horror of it all. Dick says that you were magnificent.’

  ‘I did only what was needful.’

  ‘You stopped them bolting like frightened horses.’

  ‘The play had to go on. Ben would have wanted that.’

  Nicholas Bracewell gave a succinct account of the trials endured by Westfield’s Men during their performance. He explained that he had helped Edmund Hoode back to his lodgings but made no mention of the poet’s determination to write no more. Nor was it the moment to discuss the strange encounter with Simon Chaloner. The actor-manager was in need of comfort rather than anxiety and Nicholas was seasoned in the art of keeping unsettling news from his employer.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ he asked solicitously.

  ‘The worst is over, Nick. I’ll be back on Monday.’

  ‘Vincentio’s Revenge is a demanding piece.’

  ‘I can play it in my sleep.’

  ‘You are sure that you will be fully recovered?’

  ‘Double sure.’ Firethorn beckoned him closer. ‘But tell me what neither Barnaby nor the apprentices could. How bad a play was The Corrupt Bargain?’

  ‘It would be unfair to judge it on that showing.’

  ‘Come, come, man. Put tact aside for once. Beshrew your love for Edmund. Speak honestly about his work.’

  ‘He has written finer plays.’

  ‘Has he ever penned anything worse?’

  Nicholas hesitated. ‘Possibly not.’

  ‘His talent has been drying up steadily all year.’

  ‘That is unkind.’

  ‘Unkind but not inaccurate.’

  Lawrence Firethorn was sometimes mistakenly regarded as a monster of selfishness whose only interest was in his own performances. It was true that he had the vanity common to his trade and that it sometimes tipped over into an unseemly arrogance, but he had none of the bickering narcissism of a Barnaby Gill or the combative exuberance of an Owen Elias. Firethorn was a proven master of his craft with the confidence to tackle any role and the dedication to strive ever harder for perfection.

  Proud of his own achievements, he did not ignore those of other people. Players were helpless without good plays and he had learned how to coax the best work out of his resident author. Performances were doomed without strict discipline, which was why he set such a high value on the stage management of Nicholas Bracewell. Firethorn might be the central pillar of Westfield’s Men but he never forgot that each member of the company made his own contribution. When that contribution was satisfactory, he had nothing but praise. If anyone was giving less than his best, he upbraided him without mercy.

  ‘I will have to speak to Edmund,’ he warned.

  ‘Stay your hand a little while.’

  ‘You cannot protect him forever, Nick. Someone has to tell him the truth. He is letting us down. Most of all, he is letting himself down.’

  ‘That has not evaded his notice.’

  ‘Then why does he not do something about it?’ He warmed to his theme. ‘His last two plays barely caused a ripple of excitement. This new one-by all accounts-was dying on its feet until a real death put some life into it. Edmund Hoode is in decline and it must be stopped.’

  ‘I am confident that it will be,’ said Nicholas with far more conviction than he felt. He thought of the jaded friend he had left asleep in Silver Street, a man so out of love with his craft that he talked of abandoning it. The book holder had been concealing the truth about Edmund Hoode’s condition from Lawrence Firethorn. He would now have to hide the actor-manager’s frank criticism from the playwright. ‘Edmund has been through a difficult time of late,’ he said, ‘but he is emerging from it now. His next play will surely vindicate his reputation. Give him time.’

  Firethorn sighed. ‘Do you know what was worst, Nick?’

  ‘Worst?’

  ‘When I was lying here alone this afternoon.’

  ‘Missing the opportunity to play Duke Alonso?’

  ‘No, not that.’

  ‘Suffering such intense pain from your tooth?’

  ‘Nor that.’

  ‘Being clucked over afterwards by Barnaby Gill?’

  ‘Nor even that,’ said Firethorn. ‘It was the noise.’

  ‘Noise?’

  ‘From Holywell Lane. Heaven knows, I created a din myself but only to drown out that horrible sound from The Curtain.’ He gave a shudder. ‘Applause, Nick. Long and loud applause for Giles Randolph and Banbury’s Men. While I lay stricken here, he and his company were feted. At the expense of Lawrence Firethorn. It was unendurable. Topcliffe himself could not have devised a more exquisite torture for me.’

  Nicholas gave a wry smile. Richard Topcliffe was the notorious interrogator of suspected Roman Catholics, a man whose name was synonymous with cruelty and who was so dedicated to his grisly work that he had built a private torture chamber in his own house at Westminster.

  Firethorn writhed in anguish for a moment.

  ‘Giles Randolph was Topcliffe this afternoon.’

  ‘He is only a good actor where you are a great one.’

  ‘A good actor in a good play,’ corrected the other. ‘And that is far better than a great actor in a bad one. I need powerful weapons to battle against Randolph and my other rivals. Edmund has left me unarmed.’

  ‘He is not our only author.’

  ‘But he remains our touchstone.’

  Nicholas could not deny it. Firethorn was only saying what Edmund Hoode himself had admitted. Westfield’s Men were having to rely more and more on staple dramas from their repertoire. Other companies were attracting the best and most consistent playwrights. Nicholas looked down at the manuscript that was still tucked under his arm. Though he had told Simon Chaloner that they received a steady flow of new plays, this was the first to be offered to the company in months. It would doubtless meet the same fate as the vast majority of its predecessors. The book holder’s instinct told him that The Roaring Boy would amount to no more than the scribble of a floundering amateur.

  ‘He must be told, Nick.’

  ‘Let me broach the topic with him.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Firethorn, ‘but do not let sentiment stand in the way of the harsh truth. Edmund must shake off this lethargy and learn to write small masterpieces once more. Otherwise-much as it would grieve me-we will have to dispense with his services as a playwright and replace him with a more durable talent. Make that clear to him!’

  ***

  Simon Chaloner was a fine horseman who knew how to pace his mount. After the meeting in Silver Street, he retraced his steps to the Queen’s Head and collected the animal he had stabled there. With night starting to wrap its warm cloak around the capital, he went over London Bridge at a rising trot, kicked the horse into a steady canter and headed east along the old Roman thoroughfare of Watling Street. It was the road which pilgrims had taken for centuries to the shrine of St Thomas Becket in Canterbury and it could not be more apposite for him. Chaloner rode with the anticipatory thrill of a man on the way to meet a saint.

  The moon was a kindly lantern that splashed his route with subdued light. It
was highly dangerous for a lone horseman to venture so far by day. Night brought additional hazards but he paid them no heed. Speed and a sense of purpose were protection enough for Simon Chaloner. When jeopardy loomed up ahead of him, he met it up cold disdain. Two men, armed with daggers, lying in wait for travellers a mile or so from Deptford, jumped out into his path as he approached and waved a ragged cloak in the air to startle the horse into throwing its rider.

  They chose the wrong victim. Chaloner’s heels dug into the animal’s flank and it surged into a gallop to knock the two men flying. One went rolling over helplessly on the hard ground while the other was hurled with force against a stout elm. The highwaymen were still counting their bruises and cursing their luck as the sound of the pummelling hooves faded away in the distance. Nothing was going to stop this particular traveller.

  The horse slowed down to clatter over the bridge at Deptford Creek, then resumed its canter for the last leg of the journey. Chaloner’s destination was only a mile away now and it was not long before he caught his first glimpse of guttering light. Torches were burning at Greenwich Palace to define its elegant bulk and to throw shifting patterns upon the river that fronted it. Seen in silhouette, it had an almost fairy tale quality about it. Chaloner goaded his mount into one last spurt as the village itself came hazily into view with its houses, churches and civic buildings in a haphazard cluster. A community with strong naval associations, it was surrounded on three sides by a scatter of imposing manors, tenanted farms and market gardens.

  In recent years, the popularity of Greenwich had continued to grow. It was close enough to London to allow comfortable access by boat or horse, and far enough away to escape its seething crowds, its abiding stink and its frequent outbreaks of plague. There was an air of prosperity about the place, set in a loop of the Thames and surrounded by lush green fields. Ships lay at anchor in front of the palace and sheep grazed safely on the pasture. Even at night, Greenwich exuded a quiet pride in itself.

  Simon Chaloner reached a large house in the main street and went to the stables at the rear. An ostler came running to take the reins from him as he dropped down from the saddle, and he tossed a word of thanks to the man before hurrying away. A maidservant admitted him to the house itself and conducted him without delay to the parlour.