Lawrence Firethorn did not share her anticipatory pleasure. Deserted by his female lead on the day before the performance, he rushed around in a frenzy to try to repair the damage. Martin Yeo was once again promoted to royal status in place of the youngest apprentice and Hugh Wegges had to make hasty alterations to the costumes to accommodate Yeo’s greater bulk. A dark shadow had been cast over the long-awaited appearance at Court. The early carefree excitement had now gone out of the event.
The afternoon of December 26th found the company at Richmond for a last rehearsal. There was much anger over Richard Honeydew’s disappearance and the upheaval it had caused. But one person at least tried to see it from the boy’s point of view.
‘I feel sorry for him,’ said Ruff sadly.
‘So do I,’ agreed Nicholas.
‘He must have been very unhappy to do this.’
‘He was.’
‘Yet I never thought he would run away like that.’
‘I am not sure that he has, Sam.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at the evidence,’ said Nicholas. ‘His room was empty. Dick and his belongings had gone. There was a ladder outside the open window.’
‘How else can you explain it?’
‘People go up ladders as well as down them.’
‘So?’
‘Dick may have fled,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but it is equally possible that someone came in through the window to take him away. I think that he has been abducted.’
‘By whom?’
‘Redbeard’s accomplice. The man who has dogged us for months now. I said he would strike when least expected. What better way to hurt us than by kidnapping Dick on the eve of performance?’
Samuel Ruff was bewildered but he had no time to speculate on what might have happened. Lawrence Firethorn called them to order. They were in a crisis once more. It was time to assert his leadership and lift sagging spirits.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I do not need to remind you how important this occasion is for Westfield’s Men. We have the honour to play before our beloved Queen and the opportunity to enhance our reputation with the highest in the realm. What occurs here this evening will have a bearing on our whole future so we must not be distracted by a minor upset. The loss of Dick Honeydew is unfortunate but it is no more than that. It is but a trifle. With hard work this afternoon, we will make up any leeway and give our new play the performance it deserves!’ He raised a fist in a gesture of pride. ‘Let us show our true mettle here. Let us prove we are lusty fellows, loyal subjects and the finest actors in London!’
Amid the hubbub, they all raced to their positions.
The play was being presented in the hall, which was a hundred feet long and some forty feet wide. It had an elaborate timber roof with hanging pendants. There was a lantern in the roof over a charcoal fire. The upper parts of the walls had large perpendicular windows with paintings in between of those kings of England who had distinguished themselves on the battlefield. If they had been able to study it, they would have seen that the whole apartment was an architectural wonder.
As it was, they were so preoccupied with their rehearsal that they took little stock of their luxurious surroundings. They performed on a raised platform at one end of the hall. Seating was arranged in tiers on three sides and the royal throne was set up on a dais in front of the stage.
The rehearsal was an amalgam of professional calm and frantic improvisation. Several mistakes were made but they were quickly retrieved. Martin Yeo was not as fine a Duchess as Richard Honeydew but he was more than competent. The other players adapted their performances around his. Morale was slowly boosted. The play achieved its own momentum and carried them along.
When it was all over, they rested in the adjacent room that was being used as their tiring-house. The tensions of the last twenty-four hours had sapped them mentally and physically but recovery was imminent. With Firethorn at the helm, they now believed that they could distinguish themselves with The Loyal Subject. A wounded optimism spread.
John Tallis did not share it. Nothing could quiet his urgent pessimism. He was still highly apprehensive about the execution scene. Though it went exactly to plan, with the axe doing its work some inches away from the top of his skull, the boy was not reassured. What if Samuel Ruff’s aim was wayward during the performance? How could the lad defend himself?
Execution was not a precise art. The most famous headsman of the day, Bull, was notorious for his errors. When he officiated in the grim tragedy at Fotheringhay Castle, he needed three attempts to behead Mary Queen of Scots. Yet Bull was heralded as a master of his trade. Why should Ruff be any more reliable? He was an untrained novice with a murderous weapon in his hands.
Tallis took his problem to Firethorn once more.
‘Find someone else to double as Lorenzo,’ he pleaded.
‘There is nobody else,’ replied the actor-manager.
‘What about George Dart? He is short enough.’
‘Short enough, yes,’ conceded the other. ‘But is he brave enough? Is he clever enough? Is he good enough? Never, sir! He is no actor. George Dart is a willing imbecile. He does simple things well in his own simple way. Lorenzo is a heroic figure in the ancient mould. I will not be doubled by a half-wit!’
‘Release me from this ordeal!’ implored Tallis.
‘It will help to form your character.’
‘But I am afraid, master.’
‘Control your fears like every other player.’
‘Please!’
‘You will honour your commitment.’
‘It grieves me, sir.’
‘Cease this complaint.’
‘But why me?’
Lawrence Firethorn produced his most disarming grin.
‘Because you do it so well, John,’ he flattered.
He moved away before the boy could protest any further. Tallis was trapped in the matching doublet. He looked across at Samuel Ruff. The latter was as relaxed and composed as ever but the boy’s qualms remained. If the executioner’s hand slipped, the career of John Tallis could be sliced in two. It was a devastating thought.
A muted excitement pervaded the room. Everyone else was savouring the experience of playing at Court. What the play offered them was a brief moment at the very pinnacle of their profession. The Loyal Subject was about duty and patriotism and love. It was the perfect Christmas gift for their Queen.
John Tallis viewed it differently. The execution scene was paramount for him. He had no concern for the themes of the drama or for its wider values. Only one thing mattered.
Where would the axe fall?
It was a pertinent question.
Queen Elizabeth and her Court supped in splendour that night. Fresh from their banquet and mellowed by their wine, the lords and ladies took up their appointed places in the hall at Richmond Palace. Caught in the flickering light of a thousand candles, they were an august and colourful assembly. A good-humoured atmosphere prevailed. Behind the posing and the posturing and the brittle repartee was a fund of genuine warmth. They were a receptive audience.
Every one of the tiered seats was taken but the throne stayed empty. While her guests waited for the entertainment, the Queen herself caused a delay. It was unaccountable. The longer she stayed away, the greater became the speculation. In no time at all, the whole place was a buzz of rumour.
The delay brought grave disquiet backstage. Keyed up for their performance, the actors were distressed by the unexpected wait. They were all on edge. Lawrence Firethorn paced uneasily up and down. Edmund Hoode’s throat went dry and Barnaby Gill fidgeted nervously with his costume. Martin Yeo’s bladder seemed to be on the point of bursting and John Tallis felt a prickly sensation around his neck. As he stood ready to set the furniture for the opening scene, George Dart was shaking like an aspen.
Even Samuel Ruff was disconcerted. His anxiety steadily increased. Perspiration broke out all over him and his naked arms and shoulders were glistening. As t
he delay stretched on and on, he fondled the handle of the axe with sweaty palms.
‘Where is her Majesty?’ whispered Gill.
‘Exercising the privilege of royalty,’ returned Firethorn.
‘Making her players suffer?’
‘Taking her time, Barnaby.’
A trumpet fanfare told them that the Queen had at last arrived. The comfortable din in the hall fell to a murmur. The tension among the players increased. Their moment was at hand.
Lawrence Firethorn applied his eye to a narrow gap in the curtain at the rear of the stage. He described what he saw in a low, reverential voice.
Surrounded by her guard, Queen Elizabeth sailed down the hall and ascended the dais to take up her seat on the throne. Resplendent in a billowing dress of red velvet, she acknowledged all those around her with a condescending wave. Her hair was encircled with pearls and surmounted by a tiny gold crown that was encrusted with diamonds. Her jewelled opulence filled the hall. Time had been considerate to her handsome features and her regal demeanour was unimpaired. Flames from the candles and from the huge fire made her finery dance with zest.
The actor-manager concluded with an awed whisper.
‘Gentlemen, we are in the presence of royalty!’
Nicholas Bracewell took over the watch. When the Queen was settled, she motioned to Sir Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, and he in turn signalled to the book holder. On a call from Nicholas, the command performance began.
Music wafted down from the gallery where Peter Digby and his musicians were placed. The Prologue was delivered and the trial scene commenced. From his first line, Firethorn exerted his power over the audience. He went on to bewitch them with his voice, to thrill them with his spirited honesty and to move them with his anguish. By the end of the scene, he had touched all their hearts and prompted the first few tears.
When sentence of death was passed, the judge vacated the stage and Lorenzo was led away by two gaolers. Music played as the others processed off. George Dart came on to set a stool in position and to remove the bench he had brought out earlier for the trial. He skipped hurriedly off.
Assuming a look of wistful integrity, Firethorn was led on stage again by his gaolers. He sat on the stool in his cell. The two men departed, Lorenzo stared at the manacles on his wrists then he looked up with supplication in his eyes.
O Loyalty! Thy name Lorenzo is!
For twenty faithful years I have been true
To my fair Duchess, angel from above,
Descended here to capture all our hearts
And turn our Milan into paradise.
Could I betray such sovereign beauty
For ugly coins of foul conspiracy?
Rather would I live in cruel exile
Or kill myself upon a dagger’s point.
Fidelity has always been my cry
And constant will I be until I die!
While Firethorn declaimed his soliloquy, the players in the tiring-house got ready for their next entrance. As Nicholas lined them up in order, he kept a wary eye on Ruff. The executioner was more nervous than ever. One of the most experienced actors in the company seemed to be unsettled by the occasion. Sweat still poured out of him and he moved from foot to foot.
‘Do please take care, Master Ruff!’
‘What?’ he replied with a start.
‘My safety lies with you, sir.’
The voice came from inside the doublet of the figure standing beside him. Equipped with a false head, John Tallis was about to double as Lorenzo during the execution.
‘Use me kindly,’ said the boy plaintively.
‘I will, John,’ promised the other.
‘Let the axe fall in its rightful place.’
‘Oh, it will,’ said Ruff grimly. ‘It will.’
As Lorenzo finished his speech, the gaolers went on to bring the condemned man out of his cell. The trembling George Dart now replaced the stool with the block. Drums rolled and the procession made its way solemnly on stage.
Edmund Hoode was first in his role as the judge. Courtiers and guards followed him. The chaplain came next, holding his prayer book tightly. Lorenzo was guided to the centre of the stage by the two gaolers. Ruff brought up the rear as the executioner.
When the tableau had been formed, the chaplain turned to admonish the prisoner sternly.
‘Settle Christ Jesus in your heart and confess.’
Lorenzo remained silent but Tallis’s teeth chattered.
‘Join in prayer with me,’ continued the chaplain, ‘for the salvation of your soul. Go to your Maker with a contrite heart.’
He began to recite prayers at the hapless Lorenzo.
Samuel Ruff only half-listened to the words. Dressed in the traditional black garb of an executioner, he stood beside the block with the head of the axe resting between his feet. Through the slits in the mask, he stole a glance at the Queen of England. She was a serene and majestic figure no more than a dozen yards from him. Though guards flanked her, they were caught up in the action on the stage.
Closing his eyes for an instant, Ruff offered up his own prayer. His opportunity had been heaven-sent. It was up to him to seize it with eagerness. The significance of it all was brought home to him and extra pressure was imposed. His arms and shoulders were now awash with sweat and his palms were pools of moisture. He schooled himself to wait just a little longer. To buttress his determination, he recalled other executions that Queen Elizabeth had witnessed. The blood was soon pulsing in his temples.
Anxiety was turning its hunger on Nicholas Bracewell. From a vantage point at the rear of the stage, he watched the proceedings with mounting concern. He was more fully aware than anyone of the extent of the danger. As the moment of truth approached, he wondered if he had made the right decision or if he had delivered up an innocent life to the stroke of death. Nicholas had an impulse to rush on stage and intervene but he resisted it. The chance had to be taken. Peril had to be faced.
The chaplain intoned the last words of his prayer.
‘And may God have mercy on your soul … Amen!’
Having completed the spiritual offices, he stood back so that the rigour of the law could be enforced. The loyal subject was about to be executed for his supposed disloyalty. On the command of the judge, the gaolers took Lorenzo to the block, made him kneel in front of it and position his false head carefully over the timber.
The drums rolled more loudly. Nicholas was on tenterhooks.
Samuel Ruff now took over. He was no mock executioner in a play. He was a gleaming figure of vengeance with murder in his heart. A last fleeting look at the Queen showed him that Her Majesty was totally captivated by the performance. Everyone was off guard. Ruff swallowed hard, tightened his jaw then wiped his palms dry on his hips. It was now or never.
He took a firm grip on the glittering axe.
Nicholas fought off another urge to interrupt. Teeth clenched and fists bunched, he was tormented by the helplessness of his situation. Whatever the cost, he must hold back.
The drums beat out their tattoo, the judge nodded and the executioner lifted the axe high in the air. Its blade shimmered in the candlelight. Its menace was real. But it did not arc towards John Tallis. Another victim had been selected for execution. Jumping down from the stage, Ruff charged towards the throne with a wild cry of revenge.
‘Death to all tyrants!’
His weapon was aimed at the head of the Queen.
Yet somehow she was prepared for the attack and ducked out of the way with great dexterity. The guards, too, were ready and they closed in upon Ruff to grapple with him. Instead of scything through the royal neck, the axe thudded into the back of the throne and almost split it asunder.
‘Seize the villain!’
‘Hold him!’
Shouts and screams rent the air. A large space was cleared around the throne as terrified nobles scampered out of the way. The Court was horrified that the sovereign had been so close to a grisly death and the suddenne
ss of it all bewildered them.
Overpowered by the guards, Ruff was held tight. The glare of hatred that he directed at the Queen soon turned to a look of utter amazement. Removing crown, wig and pearls she gazed back at him with the hurt expression of someone who feels she has been betrayed by a close friend.
It was not the Queen of England at all.
It was Richard Honeydew.
Waves of astonishment rolled across the hall. Sir Edmund Tilney, a spruce figure in almost garish apparel, climbed on to the stage and raised his hands to quell the noise.
‘You will not be deprived of your entertainment,’ he told them. ‘There will be a short intermission then Her Majesty will join us. What you have just witnessed requires some explanation …’
Ruff was not allowed to hear it. He was hustled out of the room without ceremony. Richard Honeydew went with him. They found Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell waiting for them in the corridor.
The book holder’s immediate concern was for the boy. He was relieved to see that Richard was quite unharmed. The actor-manager looked at Ruff and gave a dark chuckle.
‘Caught like a rat in a trap!’ he noted. ‘You were right, Nick. This was indeed the way to draw his hand.’
The stunned Ruff turned on the book holder.
‘How did you know?’
‘There were many things,’ explained Nicholas. ‘They all pointed towards religion. You were so true to the old faith that you were prepared to kill for it.’
‘And to die for it!’ said Ruff defiantly.
‘Will Fowler was a devout Roman Catholic as well but he renounced his religion. You could not forgive him for that, Sam. Nor could you rest easy while your days in the theatre came to an end and Will’s talent flourished. Your bitterness went deep.’
‘Will betrayed us!’ argued Ruff.
‘Out of love for his young wife,’ reminded Nicholas.
‘I did not know of her,’ said the other quietly. ‘It is perhaps as well. Susan would have weighed on my conscience.’
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 21
