The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (7 page)

He gestured his bafflement then went up to his bedchamber, tapping on the door before going in. The young woman leapt up from a chair and went over to him.

‘Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank heaven I’ve found you!’

She clasped his hands tightly and tears formed in blue eyes that looked as if they had cried their fill. The woman was short, neat, pleasantly attractive, no more than twenty and wearing a plain dress beneath a simple gown. Nicholas caught a whiff of the country. One glance told him why his landlady had been so offhand with him. The girl was clearly pregnant. Anne Hendrik had seen a distressed young
woman in search of Nicholas and assumed that he was the father of the child.

He ushered her gently to a chair and knelt in front of her. The room was small but well-furnished and impeccably clean. She looked out of place in such comfortable surroundings.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘Susan Fowler.’

‘Fowler? … Surely you are not his daughter?’

‘No,’ she replied in hurt tones. ‘Will was my husband.’

Fresh tears trickled down her flushed cheeks and he took her in his arms to comfort her, letting her cry her fill before she spoke again. His head shook apologetically.

‘I’m sorry. I had no idea that he was married.’

‘It was almost two years ago.’

‘Why did he say nothing?’

‘He wanted it that way,’ she whispered. ‘Will said the theatre was a world of its own. He wanted somewhere to go to when he had to get away from it.’

Nicholas could sympathise with that desire but he still could not fit this attractive young housewife alongside the blunt and outspoken Will Fowler. There was a naive willingness about her that seemed unlikely to ensnare an actor, who, just like his fellows, had always taken his pleasures along the way with much more worldly creatures.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘In St Albans. With my parents.’

‘Two years ago, you say?’

‘All but, sir.’

It began to make sense. Two years earlier, the company had toured in Hertfordshire and given a couple of performances at Lord Westfield’s country house in St Albans. The relationship had somehow started there and, unaccountably, led to marriage. What now assailed Nicholas was a shaming guilt. They had laid Will Fowler in his grave without a thought for this helpless woman.

‘How did you find out?’ he wondered.

‘I knew something had happened. He always sent word.’

‘When did you come to London?’

‘Today. Will had spoken about The Queen’s Head.’

‘You went there?’

She nodded. ‘The landlord told me.’

Nicholas was mortified. Of all the people to report a husband’s death to a vulnerable young wife, Alexander Marwood was the worst. He could make good news sound depressing. With a genuine tragedy to retail, he would be in his macabre element. Pain and embarrassment made Nicholas enfold Susan Fowler more tightly in his arms. He took the blame upon himself. Sensing this, she squeezed his arms gently.

‘You weren’t to know.’

‘We thought he had no next of kin.’

‘There’ll be two of us come September.’

He released his grip and knelt back again. Susan Fowler had been told that he was the best person to explain the horrid circumstances of her husband’s death. Nicholas was as discreet as he could be, playing down certain aspects of the tale and emphasising that Will Fowler had been
an unwitting victim of a violent and dangerous man. She listened with remarkable calm until it was all over, then she fainted into his arms.

He lifted her on to the bed and made her comfortable, releasing her gown from her neck and undoing her collar. Pouring a cup of water from the jug on his table, he dipped a finger in it to bathe her forehead. When she began to stir, he helped her to sip some of the liquid. She began to rally.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘There’s no need. It’s a trying time for you.’

‘I miss Will so much.’

‘Of course.’

‘That man … at the tavern …’

‘He’ll be caught,’ promised Nicholas.

Susan Fowler soon felt well enough to sit up with a pillow at her back. Now that her secret was out, she wanted to talk about it and did so compulsively. Nicholas was honoured that she felt able to entrust him with her confidences. It was a touching story. The unlikely romance between an ageing actor and a country girl had started with a chance meeting at St Albans and developed from there.

The picture that emerged of Will Fowler was very much at variance with the man Nicholas had known. His widow spoke of him as kind, gentle and tender. There was no mention of his abrasive temper which had led him into so much trouble and which had finally contributed to his death. Susan Fowler had been married to a paragon. Though the time they spent together was limited, it had been a blissful union.

Another surprise lay in store for Nicholas.

‘We married in the village church.’

‘Did you?’

‘Will called it an act of faith.’

‘All marriages are that,’ he suggested.

‘You don’t understand,’ she continued. ‘Will had vowed that he’d never enter a Protestant church. He was a Catholic.’

Nicholas reeled as if from a blow. A man whom he thought he had known quite well was turning out to have a whole new side to his character. Religion was something with which the actor had always seemed cheerfully unconcerned. It did not accord too well with the freebooting life of a hired man.

‘He gave it up,’ she said with pride. ‘For me.’

‘Are you quite certain of all this?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Will, of the old religion?’

‘He was very devout.’

‘You talked about it?’

‘All the time. He showed me his Bible and his crucifix.’

‘Did he say how long he’d followed Rome?’

‘For years.’

Astonishment gave way to speculation. Nicholas began to wonder if the actor’s ebullient manner was a kind of disguise, a wall behind which he hid himself so that nobody could get too close. If he could conceal his religion and his marriage so effectively, it was possible that he had other secrets.

Susan Fowler was now patently exhausted. The shock of it all was draining her strength and her eyelids were drooping. He told her to stay exactly where she was and went quickly downstairs. Anne Hendrik was waiting for him, schooling herself to be calm yet evidently upset by the situation. She continued to ply her needle and avert her eyes from him.

‘An apology is due,’ he began.

‘Do not bother, sir,’ she answered.

‘The girl will have to pass the night in my chamber.’

‘Oh, no!’ said Anne, looking up at him. ‘I make objection to that, Nicholas. This is not a tavern with rooms to let for any doxy who happens to pass by.’

‘Susan Fowler is no doxy.’

‘Take her out of my house, if you please!’

‘You hear what I say?’

‘I care not what her name is.’

‘Susan
Fowler
,’ he repeated.

‘She will not pass the night under my roof, sir.’

‘The girl is Will Fowler’s widow.’

Realisation dawned on her and her jaw dropped. It was the last thing she had expected and filled her instantly with remorse. She looked upwards then put her sewing aside and rose from her chair. Her natural compassion flowed freely.

‘Oh, the poor lass! Of course, she must stay – for as long as she wishes. The girl should not be travelling alone in that condition.’ She turned to Nicholas. ‘Why did you not tell me that Will Fowler was married?’

‘Because I only found out about it myself just now.’ He
flashed her a warm grin. ‘Does this alter the case?’

A brief smile lit up her face and she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. Duties intruded.

‘If she is to sleep in that chamber, I must take up some clean bedding. And she may need help undressing.’ Her hand went up to her mouth. ‘Oh dear! What must she think of me, giving her such a frosty welcome when she came to my door?’

‘She did not even notice it, Anne.’

‘It was unpardonable.’

‘Susan Fowler is concerned with weightier matters.’

‘How long has she known?’

‘Today.’

‘No wonder the girl is in such distress. I’d better go up to her at once and see what I can do to help her.’

‘She will be very grateful.’

Anne went bustling across the room then stopped in her tracks as a thought struck her. She swung round on her heel.

‘If the girl is going to be in
your
bed …’

‘Yes?’

‘Where will you sleep?’

His grin broadened and she replied with a knowing smile. It would give her the chance to show him how sorry she was.

E
dmund Hoode laboured long and hard over
Gloriana Triumphant
, and it underwent several sea changes. The first decision he made was to set it in the remote past. Censorship of new plays was strict and Sir Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, was especially vigilant for any political implications in a piece. A drama featuring the real characters and issues involved in the defeat of the Armada would be far too contentious to allow even if it were a paean of praise.

The principals had to be disguised in some way and a shift in time was the easiest solution. Elizabeth therefore became the fabled Gloriana, Queen of an ancient land called Albion. Drake, Hawkins, Howard, Frobisher and the other seadogs all appeared under very different names. Spain was
transmuted into an imperial power known as Iberia.

Creation came easily to some authors but Edmund Hoode was not one of them. He needed to correct and improve and polish his work all the time. It made for delays and heightened frustration.

‘When
will
it be finished?’ demanded Firethorn.

‘Give me time,’ said Hoode.

‘You’ve been saying that for weeks.’

‘It’s taking shape, but slowly.’

‘We need to have it in rehearsal soon,’ reminded the other. ‘It will first see the light of day at The Curtain next month.’

‘That’s what worries me, Lawrence.’

‘Pah!’

The Curtain was one of the very few custom-built outdoor playhouses in London and Firethorn was delighted that
Gloriana Triumphant
would have its premiere there. Apart from the fact that the theatre was close to his own home in Shoreditch, it offered far better facilities and a far larger audience than The Queen’s Head. It was also patronised more extensively by nobility – Lady Rosamund Varley among them – and this added to its lustre. Edmund Hoode still had qualms.

‘I do not like The Curtain.’

‘It is ideal for our purposes.’

‘The audience is too unruly.’

‘Not when
I
am on stage,’ boasted Firethorn.

‘All they want are jigs and displays of combat.’

‘Then they will be satisfied, sir. You give them a jig, two
galliards and a coranto. What more can they ask? As for combat, they will watch the greatest sea battle in history.’

‘I’m still not sure that it will work.’

‘Leave it to Nicholas. He’ll make it work.’

‘But I have never put ships on stage before.’

‘It is a brilliant device. When the cannons go off, the audience will believe they see the Armada itself sink below the waves.’ Firethorn caressed his beard. ‘There is just one small thing, Edmund.’

‘What?’ sighed the author. ‘Your small things always turn out to be a complete rewrite of the play.’

‘Not this time. A few lines here and there will suffice.’

‘To what end?’

‘We need more romance somehow.’

‘Romance?’

‘Yes,’ explained Firethorn, slapping the table for effect. ‘I am portrayed as a famous hero and rightly so, but there must be another side to my character. Show me as a great lover!’

‘During a sea battle?’

‘Insert a scene on land. Perhaps two.’

It was yet another example of the influence that Lady Rosamund Varley was having upon him. Since she had taken an interest in him, he went out of his way to present himself in the most attractive light. To play a love scene on stage was a means of rehearsing a dalliance with the lady herself. Firethorn was ready to distort the drama with incongruous material so that he could convey a message to one person in the audience.

‘We already have romance,’ argued Hoode.

‘Between whom?’

‘The seamen and their ships. The subjects and their queen. The people and their country. It is all love in one form or another.’

‘Give me real passion!’ insisted Firethorn.

‘Passion?’

‘Between a man and a woman.’

‘But there’s no reason for it.’

‘Invent one.’

They were sitting in the room at Hoode’s lodgings where the author had spent so many interminable nights struggling with the play. He looked down at the sheaf of papers that made up
Gloriana Triumphant
. To contrive a love affair would mean radical alterations to the whole structure but he knew that he had to comply. Firethorn was relentless in his persistence.

Hoode’s mind wandered back to an earlier humiliation.

‘I played my first important role at The Curtain.’

‘Were you well-received?’

‘They threw apple cores at me.’

‘Ungrateful dolts!’

‘It was an omen,’ said the author gloomily. ‘The Curtain has never been a happy place for me.’

‘We will change all that with
Gloriana Triumphant
.’

Edmund Hoode did not share his optimism. Like most men who took their precarious living from the playhouse, he was racked by superstition. Those apple cores still hurt.

Being married to one of the finest actors in England was an experience which would have cowed most wives but Margery Firethorn rose to the challenge splendidly. She was a woman of strong character with a Junoesque figure, an aggressive beauty and a bellicose charm. There were four apprentices to look after as well as two small children of her own and occasional lodgers from the company, and she ran the household with a firm hand and a fearless tongue.

She enjoyed a tempestuous relationship with her husband and they shuttled at will between loathing and love, so much so that the two extremes sometimes became interchangeable. It made the house in Shoreditch a lively place.

‘Who is she, Barnaby?’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Lawrence is smitten again.’

‘Only with you, Margery,’ he said with mock innocence.

‘I feel it in my bones.’

‘Marriage has many ailments.’

‘How would you know?’

He rolled his eyes and gave her a disarming smirk. It was Sunday and Barnaby Gill had called at the house, ostensibly to pay his respects, but chiefly to feed her suspicions about the existence of a new
amour
in her husband’s life. When she pressed him further, he deployed innuendo and denial with such skill that he confirmed all she had guessed at. Smug satisfaction warmed him. It was always pleasing to spread marital disharmony.

The performance of plays was forbidden on the Sabbath and not even the reckless Firethorn was ready to flout that ruling within the City walls. Lord Westfield’s Men had a nominal day of rest though it rarely worked out like that.

Barnaby Gill glanced around and tried to sound casual.

‘Is young Dick Honeydew at home?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I wanted a word with the lad.’

‘Indeed?’

Margery Firethorn had got his measure the first time that she had ever met him. Though she liked him and found him amusing company at times, she never forgot the more sinister aspect of Barnaby Gill and it brought out her protective instinct.

‘Is he here?’

‘I don’t think so. He was going to sword practice.’

‘Oh.’

‘Nicholas promised to instruct him.’

‘The boy should have come to me. I’d have taught him to thrust and parry. Where is this instruction taking place?’

‘I cannot tell you.’

‘Would any of the other lads know?’

‘They are not here, Barnaby.’

‘I see,’ said the other, angry at being baulked. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is getting above himself. Dick is apprenticed to Edmund Hoode and it’s he who should bear the responsibility for the boy’s training. It should not be left to a menial like a book holder.’

‘Nicholas is much more than that,’ she replied with
spirit. ‘You do him a grave disservice. As for Edmund, he’s so busy with this latest play of his that he has no time to spend with the child and is grateful for any help.’

Though she was kept very much on the fringe of events, Margery Firethorn could see how much the book holder contributed to the running of the company, but that was not the only reason why she rushed to his defence. She was particularly fond of him. In a profession with more than its share of self-importance and affectation, he stood out as a modest soul and a true gentleman.

‘I will bid you farewell,’ said Gill.

‘Good day, Barnaby.’

‘And remember what I told you.’

‘About Lawrence?’

‘There is no other lady in his life.’

His tone made it quite clear that there was. Having assured Firethorn of a stormy reception when next he came home, Barnaby Gill took his leave. As he walked abroad through the streets of Shoreditch, he thought about the pleasures there might be in instructing Richard Honeydew how to use a sword and dagger. An opportunity would surely come one day.

Margery, meanwhile, turned to her household duties. She was in the middle of upbraiding the servant girl when there was a loud banging at the front door. A breathless George Dart was admitted. Margery glared down at him and the diminutive stagekeeper cowered in fear.

‘Why do you make such noise at my door?’ she demanded.

‘Master Bracewell sent me,’ he said between gulps for air.

‘For what purpose?’

‘To fetch Dick Honeydew.’

‘He’s already gone.’

‘Are you sure, mistress? He has not turned up for sword practice. Master Bracewell has waited over an hour.’

‘The boy left the house around ten.’

‘Did you
see
him leave?’

‘No, but I heard him go with the others.’

A frown settled on her forehead as she tried to puzzle it out, then she grabbed George Dart by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs.

‘We’ll soon sort this out,’ she promised.

‘Dick is never late as a rule.’

‘There has to be an explanation.’

Having reached the first landing, she went along to another small flight of stairs. When Richard Honeydew had first moved in, he had slept in the same room as the other apprentices and suffered nightly torments. Margery had moved him up to an attic room on his own, and it was to this that she now hurried.

‘Dicky!’

She flung open the door but the room was empty.

‘Dicky!’ she called again.

‘Where can he be, mistress?’

‘Not here, as you see. Dicky!’

Her third shout produced a response. There was a muffled thumping from somewhere nearby. Dart’s elfin face puckered.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘Listen!’

‘There was a—’

‘Shhhh!’

They waited in silence until more thumping came. Margery went out into the passageway and soon tracked it down. There was a small cupboard under the eaves and its rough wooden door was vibrating with each sound. George Dart was terrified but Margery plunged on, seizing the handle and throwing open the door with a flourish.

‘Dick!’ she cried.

‘God in heaven!’ exclaimed the stagekeeper.

Richard Honeydew was not able to answer them. Completely naked, he was lying bound and gagged on the bedding that was stored in the cupboard. His eyes were pools of horror and his cheeks were puce with embarrassment. Both his heels were bruised from their contact with the timber.

Margery Firethorn plucked him to her bosom and held him in a maternal embrace. As her mind began to devise a punishment for this latest prank of the other apprentices, something else flitted across it to make her catch her breath.

What if Barnaby Gill had been the one to find him?

Alexander Marwood was unrepentant. As landlord of a busy inn, he had countless duties to attend to and he was always working under intense pressure, not to mention the dictates of a nagging spouse. He saw it as no part of his job to be tactful in passing on bad news. When Susan Fowler
came to him, he simply delivered a plain message in a plain way.

‘What was wrong with that?’ he asked.

‘Common decency should tell you,’ replied Nicholas.

‘The man’s dead, isn’t he? No helping that.’

‘Perhaps not but there’s a way of helping his widow.’

‘I told her the truth.’

‘You
hit
her with it.’

‘Who says so?’

‘I do,’ accused Nicholas.

Marwood’s face was in its usual state of wrinkled anxiety but there was no hint of apology in its folds and twitches. It was useless to take him to task about the way that he had met Susan Fowler’s enquiry. Here was a man who gravitated towards misery and positively rejoiced in being the bearer of bad tidings.

After a final word of reproach, Nicholas Bracewell turned on his heel and walked across the taproom. He did not get very far. A familiar figure was obstructing his path.

‘Good morning, Master Bartholomew.’

‘Hello, Nicholas.’

‘I did not think to see you at The Queen’s Head again.’

‘Times have changed,’ admitted the poet. ‘I have a favour to ask of you. I know that you will oblige me.’

‘I will do my best, sir.’

Roger Bartholomew pulled out the manuscript that was tucked under his arm. He handled it with the reverence that is only accorded to holy writ. Pride and pain jostled for supremacy in his expression and Nicholas could see just
how much effort it had cost him to return to the scene of his earlier dejection. The young scholar inhaled deeply before blurting out his request.

‘I wanted you to show this to Master Firethorn.’

‘A new play?’

‘It is a vast improvement upon the last one.’

‘Even so.’

‘If you could persuade him to read it, I’m sure that he will discern its quality.’

‘We are not looking for a new play at the moment.’

‘You will be unable to refuse
An
Enemy Routed
.’

‘But we do not purchase much new work,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Most of our pieces come from stock. Westfield’s Men only stage six or seven new plays a year.’

‘Ask him to read it,’ urged Bartholomew, handing the precious manuscript to him. ‘It tells of the Spanish Armada.’

‘Ah.’

‘It is a celebration of a supreme achievement.’

‘That may be so, Master Bartholomew, but …’ Nicholas searched for a way to let him down lightly. ‘It is a popular subject these days. Many authors have been inspired to write dramas that deal with our triumphs at sea. As it happens, Edmund Hoode is writing a play for us on that selfsame theme.’