‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said effusively. ‘We have broken bread with Sir Robert Sidney himself. Our reputation has come before us. His brother, the late and much-lamented Sir Philip Sidney, was his predecessor here as Lord Governor of Flushing. He praised us to the skies. Sir Philip saw me play Hector at the Bel Savage Inn and witnessed some of our finest hours at the Queen’s Head.’
‘He also commended my genius to his brother,’ said Gill.
‘And one of my plays,’ added Hoode modestly.
‘In short,’ continued Firethorn, ‘Sir Robert is not content merely to lodge us here before sending us on our way. He has called for a play from Westfield’s Men.’ There was a flurry of interest from the company. ‘Our first engagement is to be before the Governor, his staff and our gallant English soldiers.’
There was a derisive snigger from one of the soldiers at the far end of the room, a big, scowling man with a sash across his chest and a rapier at his hip. The actor-manager sailed over the interruption without even hearing it.
‘Our play chooses itself,’ he announced.
‘Does it?’
‘Hector of Troy!’
‘Over my dead body!’ howled an irate Gill.
‘Yes, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I cut you down with my sword at the end of Act Five. A most deserved end for you.’
‘It is a hideous choice.’
‘I am bound to agree,’ said Hoode. ‘Anything but that.’
‘Support me here, Nick,’ said Firethorn, turning to the book-holder. ‘Hector is the only man fit for this occasion.’
The whole room was now listening to the argument and it showed nobody in a good light. Nicholas turned a public dispute into a private conference by leading Firethorn to a settle in the corner. Seated beside him, he used quiet persuasion in place of hot words. The others in the room gradually picked up their own conversations and left the two men alone.
‘Hector is one of your greatest roles,’ began Nicholas. ‘it is justly acclaimed. But this may not be the time and place for him.’
‘What better time than during a war? What more appropriate place than in front of English soldiers?’ He grabbed the other’s arm. ‘Hector is a military hero. My performance will inspire our army to similar feats of heroism in the field.’
‘I fear that it will lower their spirits.’
Firethorn felt betrayed. ‘My acting? Lower spirits?’
‘I talk of the play and not your performance,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘This war in the Netherlands is now in its seventh year, with no sign of resolution. Many English soldiers have already sacrificed their lives and others will surely do so.’
‘How does this bar Hector of Troy?’
‘The army is weary and disheartened. Soldiers need a play which takes them away from war, not one which reminds them of it. They want rest, amusement, distraction. In place of a stirring tragedy, offer them a harmless comedy. There is another consideration,’ he argued softly. ‘Where is the performance to take place?’
‘That was not decided.’
‘Is there anywhere suitable in the army’s quarters?’
‘They have no quarters, Nick,’ said Firethorn with a shrug. ‘The soldiers are dispersed around the town in lodgings. The Governor himself does not have a residence of his own. He rents a house. Flushing may be an English town but it is crawling with Dutch landlords.’
‘Where, then, are we expected to play?’
‘I was relying on you to find a place for us.’
Nicholas pondered. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
***
Adrian Smallwood demonstrated his true value to the company next morning. He was indefatigable. In default of anywhere more suitable, Nicholas selected the inn itself as their theatre and he found the landlord much more amenable than Alexander Marwood had ever been. Decisions had to be taken quickly and implemented at once. Since there was no enclosed yard like that at the Queen’s Head, Nicholas elected to set the stage up in the angle between the main body of the inn and the stables. The afternoon sun would strike the acting area directly and warm the back of the spectators’ heads.
Smallwood was in action at once, helping the ostlers to lead the horses out of the stables and tethering them a distance away. Aided by George Dart, he rolled barrels into place, then lifted boards onto them to create a springy but quite serviceable stage. Nicholas screened the wall of the inn with a makeshift curtain so that one room could be pressed into service as the tiring-house and its neighbour as a storeroom for costumes and properties. The stage nestled beneath the windows, making it possible for actors to step through each set of shutters to make separate entrances. When it was cleared out by Smallwood, a stable was incorporated into the play as the home of one of its characters.
It was Smallwood’s idea to utilise the upper window as a gallery where he and the other actor-musicians could play their instruments to best effect. The chamber had been vacated by Anne Hendrik at dawn and the landlord obligingly reserved it for use by Westfield’s Men. A hundred other jobs needed to be done and Nicholas shared them out evenly, but it was Adrian Smallwood who somehow ended up doing most of them with an infectious cheerfulness.
‘How did you contrive the miracle, Nick?’ he asked.
‘Miracle?’
‘You turned Hector of Troy into Mirth and Madness. Nobody else could have worked so subtly on Master Firethorn.’
‘I have had some practice,’ said Nicholas wryly.
‘What is your secret?’
‘Patience and fortitude.’
‘Heavy demands must have been made on both.’
Nicholas grinned. ‘I have lived to tell the tale.’
The rehearsal of Mirth and Madness was attended by all kinds of errors and delays, as the deficiencies of the stage forced several changes to the text as it was played at the Queen’s Head. But there was no sense of desperation. It was stock play from their repertoire and they knew they could make it work as successfully as it always had done. To his credit, Firethorn led his company with admirable commitment. The loss of his beloved Hector was a blow that left no visible bruises. At the end of the rehearsal, he gave them his routine blast of criticism in order to concentrate their minds. He then retired without any qualms to take refreshment in the inn.
Smallwood remained behind to help Nicholas with last-minute refinements. The two wagons were placed end to end at the rear of the rows of benches to provide additional seating at a raised level. Because there was no charge for admission, it was unnecessary to screen off the open side of the improvised auditorium. Nicholas fully expected customers from the inn and townspeople to converge on them out of curiosity when the performance was under way. He took a final look around.
‘We are all done, Adrian,’ he decided.
‘Thanks to your leadership.’
‘Take your share of the credit. You have worked as hard as any of us and with far less complaint.’
Smallwood beamed. ‘I love this life, Nick.’
‘This tour may put that love under severe strain.’
‘It will not be found wanting,’ vowed the other.
They slipped away for a frugal meal and were soon back in the tiring-house with the rest of the company. Spectators began to pour in and the benches quickly filled. Firethorn felt the need to make an oration to his fellows. Dressed in his costume, he beckoned them close to hear his urgent whisper.
‘Lads,’ he declared, ‘this is a test of your mettle. We perform a trusty old play on a rickety stage in front of an untried audience. Anything may happen and we must be ready to respond to it. The good name of Westfield’s Men must be preserved at all costs. See this afternoon as a chance to try our art on foreign eyes and ears. English soldiers will form the main part of our audience but there may be Dutch, Danish and German spectators out there as well. Include them at all times. Raise your voices. Broaden your gestures. Leave them shaking with mirth at the divine madness of Westfield’s Men.’