‘But I want a play,’ she urged. ‘To please me, say that I may have my way in this matter. It was a transport of delight from start to finish. Master Firethorn is the best actor in the whole world and I worship at his feet.’ She threw her arms around his neck. ‘Do not deny me, sir. I know it is your day but I would round it off with a performance of some lively play.’
Walter Stanford gave an indulgent chuckle.
‘You shall have your wish, Matilda,’ he said.
‘Oh, sir! You are a worthy husband!’
‘And you, a wife among thousands. I strive to satisfy every whim of my gorgeous young bride.’
Nicholas Bracewell paid the penalty for being so reliable and resourceful. The more competent he proved himself in every sphere, the more onerous became his duties. While he made himself indispensable to the company and thereby attained a degree of security that none of the other hired men could aspire to, he found himself coping with additional responsibilities all the time. Nicholas made light of them. Having run his errand for Lawrence Firethorn, he went straight back to his post to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of the costumes and properties. Westfield’s Men were not due to perform at the Queen’s Head until the following week and so their makeshift theatre had to be taken down so that the yard could be returned to its more workaday function as a stabling area for visitors to the inn. The valuable accoutrements of the actor’s art had to be carefully gathered up and locked away in a private room that was rented from the landlord.
While marshalling the stagekeepers, Nicholas also had to deal with countless enquiries from members of the company who wanted details of future engagements, repairs made to some hand prop or other, simple praise for their afternoon’s work and, most of all, confirmation of when and where they would get their wages. The book holder was also the central repository of complaints and there was never a shortage of these as peevish actors pursued their vendettas or argued their case for a larger role. It was tiring work but Nicholas sailed through it with the quiet smile of a man who revels in his occupation.
When the last complaint had been fielded — George Dart wondering why Count Orlando had boxed him on the ear in the middle of Act Two — Nicholas went on to tackle one of his most daunting tasks. This was his all too regular encounter with Alexander Marwood, the gloomy landlord of the Queen’s Head, a man temperamentally unsuited to the presence of actors because he believed, in that joyless wasteland known as his heart, that their avowed purpose in life was to destroy the fabric of his inn, scandalise his patrons and debauch his nubile daughter. That none of these things had so far actually happened did nothing to subdue his restless pessimism or to still his nervous twitch.
Nicholas met this merchant of doom in the taproom and smiled into the cadaverous, ever-mobile face.
‘How now, Master Marwood!’
‘You do me wrong to vex me so,’ said the landlord.
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Fire, Master Bracewell. Yellow flames of fire. It is not enough that my thatch is at risk from those pipe-smokers who crowd my galleries. Westfield’s Men have to bring it onto the stage as well. It was almost Death and Darkness indeed for me. Those torches could have set my whole establishment ablaze. Do but consider, I might have lost my inn, my home, my livelihood and my hopes of future happiness.’
‘Water was at hand in case of any mishap.’
‘Would you burn me to the ground, sir?’
‘Indeed not, Master Marwood,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘We would never destroy that which we hold most dear. Namely, your good opinion which is attested by your contractual dealings with us. In token of which, allow me to pay the rent that is now due. In full, sir.’
He handed over a bag of coins and sought to steal away but the landlord’s skeletal fingers clutched at his sleeve to detain him.
‘I crave a word with you, Master Bracewell.’
‘As many as you wish.’
‘It concerns your contract with the Queen’s Head.’
‘We are anxious to renew it.’
‘On what terms, though?’
‘On those satisfactory to both parties.’
‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ said Marwood, using a hand to push back a strand of greasy hair from his furrowed brow. ‘The case is altered, sir.’
‘I am sure that we can come to composition.’
‘Westfield’s Men bring me many woes.’
Alexander Marwood recited them with morbid glee. It was a litany that Nicholas had heard many times and always with the same wringing of hands, the same sighing of sighs and the same uncontrollable facial contortions. Use of the Queen’s Head came at a high price. Westfield’s Men had to put up with the sustained hysteria of a landlord who was whipped into action by a nagging wife. Ready to reap the financial advantages of having a theatre company in his yard, Marwood also harvested a bumper crop of outrage and apprehension. He was at his most febrile when the contract was due for renewing, hoping to exact more money and greater assurances of good conduct from the acting fraternity. What disturbed Nicholas was that a new note was being sounded.
‘We may have to part company, Master Bracewell.’
‘You would drive us away to another inn?’
‘No other landlord would be foolish enough to have you,’ said Marwood fretfully. ‘They lack my patience and forbearance. You’ll not easily find another home.’
It was a painful truth. Public performance of plays was forbidden within the city boundaries and it was only municipal weakness in enforcing this decree that allowed companies such as Westfield’s Men to flourish unscathed. More than once, they aroused aldermanic ire by their choice of repertoire or by the bad influence they were alleged to have on their audiences but they had never actually faced prosecution. Though fearing that every day the hand of authority would descend on his bony shoulder, Alexander Marwood, out of naked self-interest, yet ran the risk of contravening regulations. Other publicans would not be so adventurous, quite apart from the fact that their premises, in most cases, were not at all suitable for the presentation of drama. For some years now, the Queen’s Head had furnished Westfield’s Men with the illusion of having a permanent base. That illusion could be completely shattered.
‘Do not make any hasty decision,’ said Nicholas.
‘It is one that may be forced upon me, sir.’
‘For what reason?’
‘The Queen’s Head may change hands.’
Nicholas was jolted. ‘You are leaving?’
‘No, sir, but we may yield up ownership. We have received an offer too generous to ignore. It would give us security in our old age and provide a fit dowry for our daughter, Rose.’ He attempted a smile but it came out as a hideous leer. ‘There is but one main condition.’
‘What might that be?’
‘If we sell the inn, the new owner insists that Westfield’s Men must go.’
‘And who is this stern fellow?’
‘Alderman Rowland Ashway.’
Nicholas winced. He knew the man by reputation and liked nothing of what he had heard. Rowland Ashway was not merely one of the most prosperous brewers in London, he was also alderman for the very ward in which the Queen’s Head was located. His disapproval of inn-yard theatre did not spring from any puritanical zeal. It arose from notions of prejudice and profit. Like others who felt they created the wealth of the capital city, Ashway had a deep suspicion of an idle aristocracy that fawned away its time at court and held the whiphand over the growing middle class of which he was a prominent member. To his way of thinking, a theatrical company was an indulgence on the part of a highly privileged minority. In ousting Westfield’s Men, he could strike a blow at the epicurean Lord Westfield himself.
It was not only social revenge that activated the brewer. In the final analysis, his account book dictated all his business decisions. If he was buying the Queen’s Head, he obviously felt that he could more than compensate in other ways for the revenue he would forgo if he expelled the company. Nicholas was seriously alarmed. The resourceful book holder might be thrown out of work by a ruthless book keeper.