The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Why not, Father?’

  ‘Because of my position as an Alderman. My dignity must be upheld at all costs. I would not have my daughter seen at a common playhouse.’

  ‘But I was not seen – I wore a veil.’

  ‘You are forbidden to go near a theatre!’

  ‘That is unfair,’ she protested.

  ‘It is my decree. Obey it to the letter.’

  ‘But I have agreed to go to The Curtain with Grace this very afternoon. Do not make me disappoint her.’

  ‘Tell Mistress Napier you are unable to go. And urge her, on a point of moral principle, not to attend the theatre herself.’

  ‘Father, we both want to go there.’

  ‘Playgoing is banned forthwith.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I would have it so,’ he declared.

  Before she could argue any further, he waddled out of the room and closed the door behind him. Isobel seethed with annoyance. Her father seemed to prohibit all the things in life that were really pleasurable. The need to maintain his dignity in the eyes of his peers was a burden on the whole family but especially on her. It imposed quite intolerable restraints on a young woman who craved interest and excitement. Isobel Drewry was trapped. She was still in a mood of angry dejection when a servant showed in Grace Napier.

  The newcomer was attired with discreet elegance and brought a delicate fragrance into the room. Something had put a bloom in her cheeks. Grace Napier was positively glowing.

  ‘Master Hoode has sent a poem to me, Isobel.’

  ‘Written by himself?’

  ‘No question but that it is. A love sonnet.’

  ‘You have made a conquest, Grace!’

  ‘I own that I am flattered.’

  ‘It is no more than you deserve,’ said Isobel with a giggle. ‘But show it me, please. I must see these fourteen lines of passion.’

  ‘It is beautifully penned,’ said Grace, handing over a scroll.

  ‘The work of some scrivener, I vow.’

  ‘No, Isobel. It is Master Hoode’s own hand.’

  Shrugging off her own problems, Isobel shared in her friend’s delight. She read the poem with growing admiration. It was written by a careful craftsman and infused with the spirit of true love. Isobel was puzzled by the rhyming couplet which concluded the sonnet.

  To hear the warbling poet sing his fill,

  Observe the curtained shepherd on the hill.

  ‘It is a reference to Cupid’s Folly,’ explained Grace. ‘He takes the part of a shepherd at The Curtain this afternoon.’

  ‘A pretty conceit and worthy of a kiss.’

  ‘See how he plays with both our names in the first line.’

  ‘“My hooded eyes will never fall from grace”,’ quoted Isobel. ‘And watch how he rhymes “Napier’’ with “rapier’’. Your swain is fortunate that it was not I who bewitched him.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘He could not tinker so easily with “Isobel”. And I defy him to find a pleasing rhyme for “Drewry”. I will not suffer “jury” or “fury”.’

  ‘You forget “brewery”.’

  They laughed together then Isobel handed the scroll back. She was thrilled on her friend’s behalf. It was always exciting to attract the admiration of a gentleman, but to enchant a poet gave special satisfaction. Like her, Grace Napier was not yet ready to consign herself to marriage and so was free to amuse herself with happy dalliance.

  Envy competed with pleasure in Isobel’s fair breast.

  ‘I wish that I could take an equal part in your joy.’

  ‘And so you shall, Isobel. Let us go to The Curtain.’

  ‘It must remain undrawn for me, Grace.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘My father keeps me from the theatre.’

  ‘On what compulsion?’

  ‘His stern command.’

  ‘Does he give reason?’

  ‘He would not have me corrupted by knavery or drag his good name down by being seen at the playhouse.’

  ‘These are paltry arguments.’

  ‘Does not your father say the like?’

  ‘Word for word,’ replied Grace. ‘I nod and curtsey in his presence then follow my inclination when he is gone. Life is too short to have it marred by a foolish parent.’

  ‘You speak true!’ said Isobel with spirit.

  ‘I would see my warbling poet this afternoon.’

  ‘Then so will I.’

  ‘And if you cannot disobey your father?’

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Mask your true intention.’

  Grace Napier lifted up the feathered mask that hung from a ribbon at her wrist. Placing it over her own face, Isobel Drewry giggled in triumph. It was a most effective disguise and would hide her from any Aldermanic wrath. She thanked her friend with a peck on the cheek. Of the two, Isobel was by far the more extrovert and assertive. Not for the first time, however, it was the quiet Grace who turned out to have the stronger sense of purpose.

  Cupid’s Folly was an ideal choice for The Curtain. On a bright summery afternoon, a pastoral comedy was much more acceptable to an audience that tended to be unruly if it was not sufficiently entertained. Dances and swordplay were the favoured ingredients at The Curtain, and Westfield’s Men could offer both in abundance. Barnaby Gill was primed to do no less than four of his jigs and there were several comic duels to punctuate the action. Still jangled by their experience at the Queen’s Head, the company could relax slightly now. Cupid’s Folly was harmless froth.

  ‘Is my cap straight, Nick?’ asked Edmund Hoode.

  ‘Too straight for any shepherd.’

  ‘And now?’ said the other, adjusting its angle.

  ‘It is perfect. But do not shake so or the cap will fall off.’

  ‘There is no help for it.’

  ‘What frights you, Edmund?’

  ‘It is not fear.’

  Nicholas understood and left the matter tactfully alone. He had seen the subtle changes that Hoode’s role underwent during the rehearsal. Flowery verse had been introduced into his speeches. Deep sighs were now everywhere. The lovelorn shepherd explored the outer limits of sorrow. The part had been cleverly reworked. It was Youngthrust in a sheepskin costume.

  ‘Let’s you and I speak together,’ said Hoode.

  ‘At your leisure, Edmund.’

  ‘When the play is done?’

  ‘And I am finished here.’

  The book holder moved off to make a final round of the tiring-house before calling the actors to order. It was almost time to begin. There was the usual mixture of nervousness and exhilaration. They had a full audience with high expectations. It would be another day of glory for Westfield’s Men – and not a devil in sight!

  Barnaby Gill marshalled the womenfolk in the play.

  ‘Kiss me on the forehead in the first scene, Martin.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ said Martin Yeo.

  ‘And do not fiddle with my beard this time. Dick?’

  ‘Master Gill?’

  ‘Be more sprightly in our dance. Toss your hands thus.’

  Richard Honeydew nodded as the actor demonstrated what he meant.

  ‘As for you, Stephen, do sweeten your song.’

  ‘Am I too low, master?’ asked Stephen Judd.

  ‘Indeed, yes. You are a shepherdess, sir, and not a bear in torment. Do not bellow so. Sing softly. Please the ear.’

  ‘I will try, Master Gill.’

  The three apprentices made very convincing females in their skirts, bodices and bonnets. Young, slender and well-trained in all the arts of impersonation, they were skilful performers who added to the lustre of the company’s work. Cupid’s Folly made no real demands on them. All three took the roles of country wenches who were pursued in vain by the diseased and doddering Rigormortis. Pierced by Cupid’s arrow in the opening scene, the old man fell in love with every woman he saw and yet, ironically, spurned the one female who loved him. This was Ursula, a rural t
ermagant, fat, ugly and slothful but relentless in her wooing. She chased the object of her desire throughout the play and finally bore off the reluctant groom across her shoulders.

  Barnaby Gill luxuriated in the part of Rigormortis. Apart from giving him the chance to display his full comic repertoire, it allowed him a fair amount of licensed groping on stage, particularly of Richard Honeydew, the youngest, prettiest and most tempting of the apprentices. Gill’s proclivities were no secret to Westfield’s Men and they were tolerated because of his talent, but there was a tacit agreement that he would not seduce any of the boys into his strange ways. He had to look outside the company for such sport. Cupid’s Folly did not abrogate that rule, but it gave his fantasies some scope.

  ‘How do I look, Master Gill?’

  ‘God’s blood!’

  ‘Am I ill-favoured enough, sir?’

  ‘You would frighten the eye of a tiger!’

  ‘When shall I kiss you on stage?’

  ‘As little as possible.’

  The lantern-jawed John Tallis had been padded out as Ursula and fitted with a long bedraggled wig of straw coloured hue. Cosmetics had turned an already unappealing face into a grotesque one. The thought of being embraced by such a hideous creature made Gill shiver.

  ‘Oh, the sacrifices that I make for my art!’

  ‘Shall I practise carrying you?’ said Tallis helpfully.

  ‘Forbear!’

  ‘I only strive to please, master.’

  ‘Then keep your distance.’

  The voice of Nicholas Bracewell now stilled the hubbub. ‘Stand by, sirs!’

  The play was about to start. During its performance, Nicholas ruled the tiring-house. In spite of his leading role, Barnaby Gill was subservient to him. Even Lawrence Firethorn, cast as a frolicsome lord of the manor, acknowledged his primacy. Actors had their hour upon the stage. Behind it – where so much frenetic activity took place – the book holder held sway. The audience would see Cupid’s Folly as a riotous comedy that bowled along at high speed, but it was also a complicated technical exercise with countless scene changes, costume changes, entrances and exits. It needed the controlling hand of a Nicholas Bracewell.

  The trumpet sounded above and they were away.

  After the shortcomings of the Queen’s Head, playing at The Curtain was a pure delight. Located in Shoreditch, it was a tall, purpose-built, circular structure of stout timber. Three storeys of seating galleries jutted out into a circle and this perimeter area was roofed with thatch. Open to the sky, the central space was dominated by an apron stage that thrust out into the pit. High, handsome and rectangular, it commanded the attention of the whole playhouse. At the rear of the acting area was a large canopy supported on heavy pillars that came up through the stage. The smooth inner curve of the arena was broken by a flat wall, at each end of which was a door. Directly behind the wall was the tiring-house.

  The place was a superb amphitheatre with attributes that the Queen’s Head could never offer. There was an additional bonus. It had no Alexander Marwood. There was no prevailing atmosphere of gloom, no long-faced landlord to depress and inhibit them. The Curtain was a theatre designed expressly for the presentation of plays. It conferred status on the actors and their craft.

  Come, friends, and let us leave the city’s noise

  To seek the quieter paths of country joys.

  For verdant pastures more delight the eye

  With cows and sheep and fallow deer hereby,

  With horse and hound, pursuing to their lair

  The cunning fox or nimble-footed hare,

  With merry maids and lusty lads most jolly

  Who find their foolish fun in Cupid’s folly.

  The opening words of the Prologue set the tone admirably. When Barnaby Gill danced on stage to music, he was given a warm welcome. The audience knew where they were and liked what they saw. Rigormortis was quite irresistible. It was a performance of verbal dexterity, visual brilliance and superb comic timing. As the play progressed, it grew in stature. Each new love affair brought further complications and Gill milked the laughter with practised assiduity.

  Firethorn shone, too, as the lively Lord Hayfever, but it was only a supporting role for once. The three apprentices made wonderful nubile shepherdesses and John Tallis was an immediate success as the daunting Ursula. Nor was the romantic theme neglected. Edmund Hoode wallowed in a pit of poetic anguish and the female section of the audience was visibly touched. Watching from her cushioned seat in the gallery, Isobel Drewry was almost in tears as the lovesick shepherd bewailed his plight. Many of his lines seemed to be directed straight at Grace Napier and she herself was moved by the ardour of his appeal. The more she got to know of Hoode, the more fond of him she became, but it was an affection that was tinged with sadness. He was so ready to commit himself wholeheartedly while Grace felt something holding her back.

  Lord Westfield and his cronies preened themselves in their privileged seating and led the laughter at the wit and wordplay. They were particularly diverted by a special effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. It came in a scene that was set in the garden of Lord Hayfever’s house and which featured a large conical beehive. The amorous Rigormortis was paying his unwanted attentions to Dorinda, the winsome shepherdess. Refusing to be deflected by her protestations, he pursued her with such vigour around the beehive that his elbow knocked it over. A swarm of bees burst forth – a handful of black powder tossed covertly in the air by Gill himself – and angry buzzing sounds were made by members of the company secreted beneath the stage. Stung in a dozen tender places, Rigormortis ran and jumped his way offstage with a series of yelps and cries that made the audience rock with mirth.

  Lord Westfield turned to his nephew to share a joke.

  ‘Where the bee stings, there sting I!’

  ‘The fellow will not sit for a week,’ said Francis Jordan.

  ‘He should not have courted the queen of the hive.’

  ‘Queen, uncle?’

  ‘That shepherdess is young Honeydew!’

  ‘Well-buzzed, I say!’

  They watched the stage as fresh merriment arrived.

  Cupid’s Folly was always popular with the company but they found another reason to like it that afternoon. It healed their wounds. It blotted out the dark memory of The Merry Devils. It restored their shattered morale and put new zest into their playing. A glorious romp and an appreciative audience. Westfield’s Men were wholly revived. Fear no longer lapped at the back of their minds. They were almost home and dry. Then came the final scene.

  To end on a note of rural festivity, the playwright had contrived a dance around a huge maypole. Slotted into a hole in the middle of the stage, it looked as solid and upright as the mainmast of a ship. The countryfolk held a ribbon apiece and tripped around the pole to weave intricate patterns. Music drifted down from the gabled attic room where Peter Digby and his musicians were stationed. It was an engaging sight. Colour and movement entranced the spectators.

  At the height of the dance, there was a sudden intrusion.

  Rigormortis had been rejected by the three shepherdesses and driven away from the area. He now came sprinting back on to the village green with the panting Ursula on his tail. Fresh gales of laughter were produced by the elaborate chase sequence. Unable to outrun his pursuer, Rigormortis took refuge in the one place where she could not follow him – at the top of the pole. With great nimbleness, he shinned up the maypole and clung to it for dear life. Ursula pawed the ground below and yelled at him to come down.

  Her command was obeyed instantly.

  There was a loud crack and the pole split in two at a point only a few feet below the old man. Barnaby Gill lost his high eminence and dropped like a stone, landing heavily but rolling over immediately to get back to his feet. John Tallis gaped.

  ‘Carry me out!’ hissed Gill.

  ‘What, master?’

  ‘Over your shoulder, boy!’

  Ursula did as she was told
and bore Rigormortis offstage to a resounding cheer. The action had been so swift and continuous that it seemed like a rehearsed part of the play. When Barnaby Gill reappeared to take his bow with the company, he was given an ovation. His fall from the maypole had been as dramatic as it had been comic.

  He bowed graciously and smiled expansively but Nicholas Bracewell was not deceived. Blood was seeping through the sleeve of Gill’s costume and the man was clearly in pain. The maypole was hewn from old English oak and would never snap of its own accord. Nicholas decided that it had been sawn almost through by someone who concealed his handiwork beneath the coloured ribboning that swathed the pole. Rigormortis was meant to fall from the top. He could have been seriously injured.

  Westfield’s Men evidently had a dangerous enemy.

  Margery Firethorn clucked solicitously over the patient like a mother hen.

  ‘Dear, dear! There, there! How now, sir?’

  ‘I believe I will recover,’ said Gill wearily.

  ‘Would you care for some wine?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Some ale, then? Some other beverage of your choice?’

  ‘I could touch nothing in my present state, Margery.’

  ‘You suffer much in the cause of your profession, sir.’

  ‘It is needful.’

  ‘Is there pain still?’

  ‘Sufficient.’

  He winced and set off another round of maternal clucking.

  Barnaby Gill was making the most of it. A surgeon had been called to dress the wound in his arm then he had been brought back to Firethorn’s house because of its proximity to the theatre. Apart from the small gash which had produced the blood, he had sustained only a few bruises and abrasions. Reclining in a chair, he had now got over the accident, but he did not tell that to Margery Firethorn. He was enjoying far too much the chance to exploit her gushing sympathy.

  ‘Did the surgeon give you physic, Barnaby?’ she said.

  ‘He prescribed rest, that is all.’

  ‘Call on us, sir. Your needs will be provided.’