Margery’s principal interest was in her husband, but Mordrake was more concerned to see how his patient fared. Recovered enough to take a supporting role, Edmund Hoode was overjoyed to be back with his fellows and, from the moment that he entered in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue, it was clear that his doctor had effected a remarkable cure. Like Caesar’s Fall, by the same author, The Siege of Troy recounted a story that had been told on stage many times. Where it outshone rival versions, and where it rose above Stephen Wragby’s other play, was in the quality of its verse, the delineation of its characters and the sheer verve of its action.
A decade of war was displayed at the Queen’s Head. Lawrence Firethorn was a wily Ulysses, spinning seductive webs of words, while Owen Elias was a defiant King Priam. Richard Honeydew found pathos and cynicism in the role of Cressida. James Ingram was a commanding Agamemnon and Frank Quilter, a bellicose Ajax, teased and tormented by Barnaby Gill’s prancing clown. Mistakes were inevitably made but they went unnoticed by the audience as the play swept on from scene to arresting scene. In the final act, when the huge wooden horse made by Nathan Curtis was wheeled out of the stables where it had been concealed, it earned the biggest cheer of the afternoon.
Appropriately, it fell to Edmund Hoode, who had suffered the worst ordeal because of his unique position in the company, to deliver the Epilogue that he had written to replace that by Michael Grammaticus. Standing in the centre of the stage, relishing his moment, he declaimed the speech to the sound of music.
‘Our tale is told of Trojan and of Greek,
Of ancient malice, treachery and meek
Surrender to a wooden horse, a toy
Whose silent neigh brought down the walls of Troy.
Upon these boards, false Cressida has walked,
Ulysses hatched his plots, Achilles stalked
The gallant Hector with a shameful plan
To murder him by ambush. Every man
Was traitor or betrayed. This self-same flower
Of perfidy and lies has left its dower
To each succeeding age. It charms our mind
And with its scent makes all of us go blind.
We do not see what stands before our eyes
Until it is too late. Deceit now thrives
And forgery runs wild. This Grecian trick
Has spawned a thousand ruses just as quick
To steal our purses or to take our lives.
The innocent go down, the cheat survives.
For proof of this, behold our little stage,
Where you have seen the bloody battles rage
And mighty generals meeting face to face
While cunning politicians swift embrace.
You let illusion take its benefit
For we, your actors, did but counterfeit.’
Alexander Marwood was a picture of dejection. The high hopes that had taken him to Dunstable had been dashed. After sitting interminably beside his dying brother, he did his best to put aside old enmities, only to learn, when the will was finally read after the funeral, that he had been left nothing at all. Accompanied by a vindictive wife, who blamed him for wasting their time, he travelled back to London in great discomfort on their cart. Not even the sight of the capital could inspire him. Having left a brother who had betrayed him, he was going back, with a wife he feared, to an inn he hated and an occupation that he despised.
They reached Gracechurch Street towards the end of the afternoon, just in time to watch the happy crowds pouring out of the Queen’s Head to remind the landlord that he would have to contend with the actors who loathed him almost as much as he detested them. It was a heavy cross to bear. He and Sybil drove into the yard in grim silence, furious at the noise of revelry that was coming from the taproom. It sounded as if a riot was taking place there. Marwood jumped down from the cart and rushed off to save what he could of his inn before what he believed was an unruly mob got completely out of hand. But, when he charged into the taproom, a miracle occurred.
The noise ceased instantly and everyone turned to look at him with a respect that bordered almost on reverence. During his absence, Westfield’s Men had been assailed by a whole series of setbacks, testing them to the limit of their tolerance. Much of their suffering had been inflicted by Adam Crowmere, the very man engaged to replace their old landlord. He and his false friendship had now gone. Alexander Marwood was back to revile them as before but they found that strangely reassuring. Whatever his faults, the landlord was sincere. He was no counterfeit.
With a spontaneous release of affection, the whole company clapped and cheered him to the echo. Lawrence Firethorn even went so far as to hug the man warmly and kiss him on his pate. Marwood was overwhelmed by his reception. Against all the odds, he was wanted. As the ovation continued, and as the actors patted him warmly on the back, he was caught up in the spirit of the moment. For the first time since his wedding night, he put back his head and laughed with unreserved joy.