The Queen's Head

*

It was typical of Lawrence Firethorn that he took the tragedy as a personal insult. Without a twinge of conscience, he turned the death of a hired man into a direct attack upon his reputation. On the following afternoon, Will Fowler was due to appear in the company's latest offering at The Queen's Head, playing the most important of the secondary roles. Since the other hired men were already doubling strenuously, it was impossible to replace him. The whole performance was threatened and Firethorn worked himself up into a fine frenzy as he contemplated it.

'Shameful!' he boomed. 'Utterly shameful!'

'Regrettable,' conceded Nicholas.

Westfield's Men have never cancelled before. We would set a dreadful precedent. The audience would be robbed of a chance to see me! You must take some blame for this, Nicholas.'

'Why, master?'

'It was you who kept Will Fowler employed.'

'He was a good actor.'

'You stopped me tearing up his contract a dozen times.'

'Will was a valuable member of the company.'

'He was too quarrelsome. Sooner or later, he was bound to pick a fight with the wrong person. God's blood! If only I'd followed my own instincts and not yours!'

They were in the main bedchamber at Firethorn's house and the actor was rampaging in a white shirt. After a sleepless night, Nicholas had repaired to Shoreditch soon after dawn to break the sad news. His report was not well received.

'It's so unfair on me!' stressed Firethorn.

'My thoughts are with Will,' said Nicholas pointedly.

'One of my hired men stabbed in a tavern brawl--a pretty tale! It will stain the whole company. Did you not think of that when you took him to that vile place last night?'

'He took me.'

'It makes no difference, I am the one to suffer. Heavens, Nick, we take risks enough flouting the City regulations. The last thing we need is a brush with the authorities.'

'I've done all that is needful,' assured the other. 'You will not be involved at all.'

'I am involved in anything that touches Westfield's Men,' asserted Firethorn, striking a favourite pose. 'Besides, how are you to hold the book for us if you are hauled off to answer magistrates? Do you see how it all comes back on me? It will severely injure my reputation as a great actor.'

Nicholas Bracewell heaved a sigh. He was mourning the death of a friend but Firethorn was riding roughshod over his feelings. There were times when even he found it hard to accommodate his master's tantrums. He addressed the immediate problem.

'Let us consider Love and Fortune?' he suggested.

'Indeed, sir. An audience is expecting to see the play this very afternoon. It has always been popular with them.'

'And so it shall be again.'

'Without Will Fowler?'

'There is a solution.'

'There's no time to rewrite the piece,' said Firethorn dismissively. 'We could never unravel that plot at a morning's rehearsal. In any case, Edmund is in no condition to wrestle with such a task. The Armada play is putting him under great strain.'

'Edmund will not be needed.'

'Yet you say there is a solution?'

'Yes, master.'

'Will you raise Will Fowler from the dead, sir?'

'In a manner of speaking.'

'What riddle is this?'

'His name is Samuel Ruff.'

'Ruff!' bellowed Firethorn. 'That wretch who enticed you both into the Hope and Anchor?'

'He's an experienced player,' argued Nicholas. 'The equal of our own man in every way.'

'He could never learn the part in a couple of hours.'

'Samuel believes that he can. He is studying the role even now. I copied out the sides for him myself from the prompt book.'

'You take liberties, Nick,' warned Firethorn. 'Love and Fortune is our property. It is not for the eyes of strangers.'

'Do you wish the performance to take place today?'

'Of course!'

'Then this is the only remedy' I will not hire a man I've never met.'

'With your permission, I'll invite him to the rehearsal. You'll soon be able to judge if he can carry the part. We'll not find a better man at such short notice.'

But the fellow was injured last night.'

A flesh wound in the left arm,' explained Nicholas. 'The surgeon dressed it for him and it's not serious. Lorenzo wears a cloak in every scene. It will hide the injury completely. As for the rest of the costume, Samuel is almost of Will's height and weight so no alternations will be necessary.'

'Stop thrusting the man at me!' protested Firethorn.

'He is anxious to help.'

'But for him, we would not need help.'

Samuel accepts that. He feels guilty about what happened.

'That's why he wishes to make amends in some small way. Taking over his friend's role would mean so much to him.'

'The idea does not appeal.'

'Will Fowler would have approved.'

'I make the decisions in this company--not Will Fowler.'

'Maybe I should raise the matter with the other sharers,' said Nicholas artlessly. 'They might take a different view.'

'Mine is the view that matters!' snarled the actor.

Lawrence Firethorn prowled his lair like a tiger. When there was an explosion of boyish laughter from next door where the apprentices shared a room, he banged the wall and roared them to silence. When his wife sent word that breakfast was ready, he frightened the servant away simply by baring his fangs. At length, he began to come around.

'Experienced, you say?'

'Several years with good companies, Leicester's among them.'

'He can con lines quickly?'

'It was his trademark.'

'Is he quarrelsome?' demanded Firethorn. 'Like Will?'

'No, master. He's a very peaceful citizen.'

'And why does this worthy fellow lack work?'

'I don't know.'

'He must have some defects.'

'None that I could see. Will vouched for him.'

'Where did Ruff play last?'

'With Banbury's Men,' said Nicholas. . 'Banbury's Men!'

Firethorn's exclamation rang through the whole house. His interest in Samuel Ruff had just come to an end. The Earl of Banbury and Lord Westfield were sworn enemies who lost no opportunity to score off each other. Their respective dramatic companies were major weapons in the feud and they regarded each other with cold hatred. Banbury's Men had been in the ascendant at first but they had now been displaced by Westfield's Men. In the shifting world of London theatre, it was Lawrence Firethorn and his company who now held the upper hand and they were not willing to relinquish it.

'Meet him, at least,' pressed Nicholas.

'He is not the man for us.'

'But he fell foul of Banbury's Men through no fault of his own. He was forced to leave.'

'I will not employ him, Nick. It's unthinkable.'

'Then we must cancel the performance as soon as may be.'

'Hold! I will not gallop into this.'

'The others will be shocked by your decision.'

'It has not been made yet.'

'Give Samuel a chance,' whispered Nicholas. 'He's the man for the hour.'

'Not with that pedigree.'

'Do you know why he left Banbury's Men?'

'I don't care,' snapped Firethorn.

'Shall I tell you what his crime was?'

'Forget him.' He spoke in praise of you.'

There was a pause that was just long enough for the first seed of interest to take root. Nicholas carefully watered it with a few details.

'Giles Randolph took exception to what was said.'

'Randolph is an amateur!'

'He's full of self-love. It's not enough for him to be the leading actor with the company. They have to fawn and flatter at every turn to suit his taste, and Samuel could not bring himself to do that. They were playing Scipio Africanus.

'A miserable piece,' sneered Firethorn. 'Nothing but stale conceits and dribbling verse. I'd not soil my hands with it.'