‘Master Hibbert treats me like a cur,’ wailed the landlord.
‘His manner is indeed unfortunate.’
‘He has brought nothing but trouble since he has been here. If I am not showing a tailor up to his room, I am telling a succession of women – I dare not call them ladies – where they might find him. It’s more than a decent Christian like me can stand.’
‘If he has rented a room, he can surely entertain friends there.’
‘That depends on how he entertains them,’ said Marwood, darkly. ‘When she happened to be passing his chamber last night, my wife heard sounds that brought a blush to her cheek.’
Nicholas doubted very much if Sybil Marwood had passed the room by accident. Knowing the landlady of old, he suspected that she had an ear glued to Saul Hibbert’s door every time he had female company. Marwood’s wife was a flinty harridan, a formidable creature of blood and stone, who had never blushed in her life. Politeness, however, required Nicholas to show a degree of sympathy for her.
‘I’m sorry that your wife has suffered embarrassment,’ he said.
‘She was too ashamed to give me the full details.’
‘I’m surprised that either of you is shocked, however. This is an inn, after all, not a church. You must surely be accustomed to the sound of your guests taking their pleasures in private.’
Marwood gave a visible shudder and the twitch
abandoned his nose to move to his right eyebrow, making it flutter wildly like a moth caught in a cobweb. The landlord had not enjoyed any pleasure with his wife since the night their only child had been conceived, a fact that accounted for his deep melancholy. Deprived of any fleshly enjoyment himself, he begrudged it to others. Those with obvious sexual charm, like Saul Hibbert, earned his particular rancour.
‘The man should be gelded,’ he argued.
‘From what you tell me,’ said Nicholas, ‘that would cause upset to number of ladies, and would, in any case, be too harsh a penalty for someone who has not paid his bill. How much does he owe?’
‘Five shillings.’
‘A paltry amount to Master Hibbert.’
‘Then why does he not hand it over?’
‘He will,’ promised Nicholas, ‘when I speak to him. He can well afford it. Master Hibbert was paid handsomely for his new play.’
‘That is another thing. I do not like the title.’
‘Why? What is wrong with
The Malevolent Comedy
?’
‘It unsettles me.’
‘It may come to reassure you.’
‘In what way?’
‘Audiences have been thin of late,’ said Nicholas, sadly, ‘because we’ve been guilty of putting on meagre fare. Our gatherers took less money at performances while you sold far less beer and food.’
‘It was a matter I meant to take up with you, Master Bracewell.’
‘Our new play may put everything right.’
‘I am more worried about the new playwright.’
‘Give him time to settle in. He is still something of a novice and needs to learn his place. I’ll endeavour to instruct him.’
‘Make him treat me with respect,’ said Marwood. ‘When he talks to my wife, he is all smiles and flattery. I get nought but insults and threats from him. And ask him to change the title of his play.’
‘It is too late to do that. Playbills have already been printed.’
‘Then I fear for the safety of my inn.’
‘You need have no qualms,’ Nicholas told him. ‘You have my word that this is one of the most cunning and spirited comedies we have ever staged here. It will fill the yard time and again.’
‘You said that about
The Misfortunes of Marriage
.’
‘Another work that was touched with genius.’
‘And what happened to its author, Master Applegarth?’ asked the landlord, ruefully. ‘He was murdered at the Queen’s Head under our very noses. Think of the trouble that caused me.’
‘We all suffered together.’
‘It drove me to despair, Master Bracewell.’
‘Jonas Applegarth did not get himself hanged in order to torment
you
,’ said Nicholas, sharply. ‘It was a most cruel way to die and we should mourn him accordingly.’
‘I mourn the damage that it did to the reputation of my inn.’
‘The Queen’s Head survived.’
‘But for how long?’ demanded Marwood, anxiously. ‘Master Applegarth was a load of mischief from the start and this prancing peacock, Saul Hibbert, is cut from the same cloth. He is dangerous. I feel it in my water. Your clever playwright is a harbinger of disaster.’
‘I’ll take pains to ensure that he’s not hanged on your property,’ said Nicholas with light sarcasm.
‘Do not jest about it, Master Bracewell. If he continues to put on airs and graces at the Queen’s Head, your Master Hibbert may well finish up at the end of a rope,’ said the landlord, ‘and I’ll be the hangman!’
George Dart had always been the lowliest member of the company in every sense, a diminutive figure, toiling manfully in the background as an assistant stagekeeper, while those with more talent, more presence and more confidence received all the plaudits. Dart accepted his role as the whipping boy for Westfield’s Men with resignation, never expecting to shed it. The arrival of Hal Bridger, however, transformed his existence. Dart was no longer the most junior person in the troupe. Tall, gangly and hopelessly innocent, Bridger was a fair-haired youth whose passion for the theatre was not matched by a shred of histrionic skill. Unable to tread the boards with any style himself, he wanted nothing more than to serve those who could, worshipping actors such as Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill as if they were minor gods.
George Dart finally had someone beneath him, a gullible
lad who deflected the mockery away from its usual target. It was Hal Bridger who was now teased, shouted at, sent hither and thither, scorned, ridiculed and given all the most menial jobs. Dart was his friend and advisor. When he saw Thomas Skillen, the irascible old stagekeeper, box the newcomer’s ears, he took his young friend aside.
‘Remember to duck, Hal.’
‘Duck?’
‘Whenever he tries to hit you,’ explained Dart. ‘Thomas’s back is so stiff that he cannot bend. Duck under his hand and he’ll not be able to touch you. Life will be much less painful that way.’
‘Thank you, George.’
‘I should be thanking you. Since you joined the company, Thomas no longer turns his fury on me. It’s aimed at you now.’
‘Only because I deserve it.’
Hal Bridger gave a toothy grin. To be part of such an illustrious theatrical enterprise, he was very willing to endure daily beatings and constant verbal abuse. To be yelled at by Lawrence Firethorn was, to him, a signal honour. At the same time, he did not wish to jeopardise his position by failing in his duties. Guided by Nicholas Bracewell, and helped by Dart, he had become an efficient servant to the company. Bridger had been rewarded with what he saw as the ultimate accolade.
‘I never thought I’d ever be given a role to play,’ he said.
‘You are onstage for less than a minute,’ Dart noted.
‘It will seem like an hour to me, George. I’ll bask in its
glow. And I’ll share my precious moment of fame with no less an actor than Master Firethorn. I’ll be in heaven.’
‘It was more like hell to me.’
An unwilling actor at the best of times, Dart had a fatal habit of forgetting his lines, dropping anything that he was carrying and bumping into scenery. Even though confined to tiny roles, he could be a menace. The part assigned to him in
The Malevolent Comedy
had filled him with his customary apprehension, until Nicholas Bracewell took pity on him and suggested that Hal Bridger might take his place. One man’s intense relief was another’s joy. Day after day, Bridger had rehearsed his single line with alacrity.
‘I will take anything from your fair hand,’ he declared.
‘What?’
‘That’s what I say to Mistress Malevole when I take the potion from her. I know that she is only Dick Honeydew in a wig and skirts, but she is the most convincing lady I ever saw.’
‘Dick is the best of our apprentices,’ said Dart, proudly. ‘He can play queens or country maids with equal skill. Wait until you see him as the Countess of Milan in one of our tragedies.’
Bridger was eager. ‘Will there be a part for me in that?’
‘Several. I played four the last time we performed it.’
‘I’ll
buy
one of them off you, George.’
‘You can have all four
gratis
.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bridger, striking a pose. ‘I will take anything from your fair hand.’
‘It will be a clout if Thomas catches you dawdling here,’
warned Nicholas Bracewell, coming up to them with an affectionate smile. ‘The spectators will begin to dribble in soon and the first scene is not set. About it straight.’
The pair of them gabbled their apologies and ran off. They had been talking in the tiring-house, the room at the rear of the stage that was used by the actors during a performance and filled with their costumes. Nicholas checked that all the hand properties were set out in the correct sequence on the table, and was pleased to see that Dart and Bridger had done that job well. He went through the curtain and onto the stage, making sure that they put the settle, chairs and small table in the right positions for the opening of the play. Hal Bridger broke off to stare up in wonder at the galleries.
‘Our patron will be up there this afternoon,’ said Nicholas.
Bridger was overawed. ‘Lord Westfield himself?’
‘He’s coming expressly to hear you, Hal,’ joked Dart.
‘But I only utter a single line.’
‘Make sure that it is loud and clear,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is all we require of you. Except that you do not knock anything over when you fall to the floor.’
‘As I’d be certain to do,’ admitted Dart.
‘Ah, yes,’ Nicholas went on, struck by an afterthought, ‘there is perhaps one thing more, Hal.’
‘What’s that?’
‘
Enjoy
yourself.’
‘I will, I promise you!’
‘It’s more than I ever managed to do,’ confided Dart.
But his remark was drowned out by Hal Bridger’s happy laughter. The assistant stagekeeper was on the brink of one of the most thrilling experiences of his life and Nicholas was pleased for him. Like everyone else in the company, Hal Bridger could not wait to perform an exciting new play before its first audience. Heaven was at last at hand.
Spectators flocked to the Queen’s Head in droves, spurred on by the promise of novelty and by rumours that they would be present at a remarkable event. The galleries were soon crammed to capacity, the pit a seething mass of citizenry. Food and beer were served in large quantities, putting the watching public in the ideal frame of mind. Saul Hibbert wore a new suit of blue velvet for the occasion, looking more ostentatious than ever as he settled onto his cushion in the upper gallery. While the author of
The Malevolent Comedy
oozed a conviction that bordered on complacency, the cast was troubled by the doubts and fears that always afflicted them on such occasions.
Veteran actors knew the horrors that could attend first outings of a play. If the work did not find favour, they would be booed, jeered and even be hit by ripe fruit, hurled at them by disappointed spectators. More than one of the new plays they had performed in the past had sunk without trace beneath the wrath of their audience. In two cases, the actors had not even been allowed to finish the play, hounded from the stage by riotous behaviour. While they all had faith in the excellence of
The Malevolent Comedy
, their confidence was not unmixed with dread.
It was a situation in which Lawrence Firethorn came to the fore. If he had the slightest tremor, it did not show in his face or bearing. As he gathered his company around him in the tiring-house, he was the epitome of poise and assurance. Resplendent in his costume as Lord Loveless, he addressed his actors.
‘Friends,’ he said, solemnly, ‘we have been given an opportunity today that we must seize with both hands. Westfield’s Men have lost something of their lustre and we must repair that loss. Our rivals boast that they are now supreme but we have a new play that can restore all our fortunes. It was Edmund’s joyous comedies that helped to forge our reputation,’ he continued, indicating Hoode, who looked like more like a disconsolate sheep than the proud steward he was supposed to be playing, ‘and we must follow in the tradition that he set for us. I believe that, in Saul Hibbert, we have another Edmund Hoode. Let us show our new author how much we appreciate his work by playing it to the hilt.’ He drew an imaginary sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Onward, lads!’ he exhorted. ‘Onwards to certain victory!’
Buoyed up by their leader’s encouragement, the actors were keen to begin, looking in the mirror for the last time and making final adjustments to their costumes. Edmund Hoode remained forlorn. Wanting the play to succeed, he believed that it would mark the end of his own career as playwright. Nicholas Bracewell went across to slip a consoling arm around his shoulders.
‘There is only one Edmund Hoode,’ he told him.
‘Thank you, Nick.’
‘And we will soon be staging his next matchless comedy.’
‘In truth,’ said Hoode with a wan smile, ‘I’m in no mood to provide humour. My muse has deserted me. She is gone forever.’
Nicholas had no time to reassure his friend. With the play due to start, a signal had to be given to the musicians in the gallery above the stage. A flag was hoisted, a fanfare blared and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. Within a matter of seconds, he got the first titter from the audience. Firethorn glanced over his shoulder at the other actors and beamed regally.
‘Let’s make them laugh until their sides are fit to burst,’ he said.
The Malevolent Comedy
secured a firm and immediate hold over the spectators. From a simple plot, Saul Hibbert had built up a complex series of comic effects. Lord Loveless, a wealthy nobleman, was looking for a wife who would marry him for love and not for his money. To that end, he enlisted the aid of Mistress Malevole, a white witch whose potions could achieve magical results. Loveless required her to make three separate women – unattainable beauties until now – swallow a potion that would make them fall instantly in love with him. By courting all three, Lord Loveless could decide which he would take as a wife.