The Bawdy Basket

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 ex
ecution.’

  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.