‘There is no point in blaming anyone,’ said Nicholas, swiftly interceding. ‘The play must run its course and there is still time to win them over.’
‘Not while my double sits glowering in the front row,’ said Firethorn. ‘He could teach Marwood how to pull faces.’
‘Your appearance offends him.’
‘It has been offending me for years,’ sneered Gill.
‘What can I do, Nick?’ asked Firethorn, ignoring the gibe. ‘Were I the villain, I could understand their dislike of me. But I am the hero, garbed like a holy friar. I am a symbol of all that is good and wholesome. Wherein lies my sin?’
‘Your disguise,’ said Nicholas.
‘It is the only way that Alonso may return to Genoa.’
‘Discard it in the next scene.’
‘But I only reveal myself in the last act.’
‘Do so earlier.’
‘That would ruin my play!’ protested Hoode.
‘No, Edmund,’ said the book-holder. ‘It may rescue it.’
Firethorn was baffled. ‘How do I maintain my disguise?’
‘Wear a hat and a cloak. Hug the corners of the stage. Turn your face away from people who might recognise you. As long as you pose as a friar, The Corrupt Bargain is doomed. Abandon the cowl and show them who you really are.’
‘Madness!’ opined Gill.
‘A betrayal of my work!’ exclaimed Hoode.
‘It may well be both,’ said Firethorn, frantically weighing the implications. ‘But it may also be our only salvation. What is more important? The fate of one paltry drama or the standing of Westfield’s Men?’
‘It is not a paltry drama, Lawrence!’
‘Perform it as written and we sink into further ignominy. Amend the play and we may hang on to our reputation.’ He heard the music which introduced his next scene. ‘It is decided. I am sorry, Edmund. We must all make sacrifices for our art.’
Leaving Hoode in tears, he charged back onstage, to be met by the same wall of antagonism. The Archbishop of Cologne was glaring at him, the Duke of Bavaria was curling his lip and Abbot Bernado looked as if he was about to excommunicate the actor. Firethorn took them all by surprise. Striding to the very edge of the dais, he tore off his cowl to reveal his ducal attire and stood before the audience in his true character. The measured voice of a friar now became the mighty roar of a dispossessed ruler. In the space of one glorious minute, he transformed a room full of grumbling enemies into an appreciative audience. At the end of his speech, it was the Italian Abbot who first put his tentative palms together to applaud.
Not all of the damage could be repaired, and vestigial doubts remained in the minds of the spectators. But the emergence of Duke Alonso into the light of day helped to salvage a great deal. The plot was now clarified, the hero identified and the embattled heroine-the winsome Richard Honeydew-able to reap her full harvest of sympathy as she was confronted with a stark choice between yielding her body to the tyrant or watching her brother die. The Corrupt Bargain was at last allowed to work its spell upon the audience.
Behind the scenes, its author was quite inconsolable.
‘This play has a curse upon it, Nick!’ he moaned.
‘That curse has just been lifted,’ said Nicholas as another round of applause rang out in the hall. ‘Listen to them, Edmund. They are hailing your work.’
‘What they are clapping is a travesty of my play. When Lawrence flung off his disguise, he altered the whole direction of the piece. We have had to improvise in every scene.’
‘With great success.’
‘But at a hideous cost.’
‘Be comforted,’ said Nicholas. ‘It remains a fine play.’
‘Not when it is savaged like this,’ retorted Hoode. ‘I do not know which is worse. Ben Skeat dying in the middle of The Corrupt Bargain or Lawrence Firethorn coming to life as the Duke of Alonso two acts before he is due to do so. The play is bewitched.’
‘So-at last-is our noble audience.’
‘Not by my art. They watch dribbling idiocy out there.’
Nicholas felt sorry for his friend, but the book-holder’s main concern was to keep the action moving. He signalled to George Dart to carry a bench onstage, then waved Owen Elias and James Ingram into position for the next scene. Actors who had been coming into the tiring-house with sad faces now showed a smiling eagerness to go back onstage. They knew that the tide of disapproval had at last been turned.
Success was modified by the earlier failure of the play. There was still a lingering suspicion in some minds that Roman Catholicism had been ridiculed. When they came out to take their bows, the actors were given pleasant smiles and polite applause. After their sustained ovation on the previous day, this was a decidedly tepid response, but at least they had won their audience over. Their cherished reputation had been partially vindicated.
Disappointment ensued. Expecting to be presented to the dignitaries, Firethorn and his company were dismayed to find themselves paid off and ushered out of the Palace. Instead of being treated as distinguished players, they were summarily dismissed like unwanted servants. As they made their disgruntled way to the inn, Firethorn sat in the first wagon beside Nicholas. The actor-manager was seething.
‘That was shameful!’ he railed. ‘We gave our all and they turned their aristocratic backs on us.’
‘Only to avoid embarrassment,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘Embarrassment?’
‘We caused unwitting offence with our play.’
‘How was I to know that my twin would be sitting in the front row? And from Genoa! What greater misfortune could we have faced? My performance must have seemed like a personal attack on him.’
‘You retrieved the situation superbly.’
‘Only at your instigation, Nick. If I’d kept that damnable cowl on until the final scene, I’d probably have been hanged from the rafters by now! Did they not recognise great acting when it was offered to them?’
‘They were overcome by it,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You were too convincing in the habit of a friar. That is why your portrayal had such an effect on them.’
‘I never thought of it that way,’ said Firethorn, his ire cooling somewhat. ‘You may be right. I was the victim of my own brilliance in the role. That is some recompense. And there is more in that purse they gave us. What did it hold?’
‘Several florins.’
‘Money is the best kind of applause.’
While Firethorn slowly rallied, the rest of the company was still morose and Hoode was almost suicidal. For the second time in succession, his play had been hacked to pieces in the name of expediency. It was a dispirited troupe which trickled back into the White Cross. A familiar face awaited them.
The Burgomaster swooped with a beaming smile.
‘Wizzfeld’s Men!’ he gushed. ‘Danke! Danke vielmals!’
‘What is he saying?’ asked Firethorn.
‘He is thanking us,’ explained Nicholas.
‘For what?’
‘Visit to the Palace,’ said the Burgomaster. ‘The play, they no like very much. I hear, I have friends in Palace. Our play, we love. You give the city the best. Thank you, my good friends. This I give to Wizzfeld’s Men.’
And he pressed a bag of coins into Firethorn’s hand.
‘What have we done to earn this?’ said the actor.
‘Put the city of Köln first. We love you. Danke.’
He embraced Firethorn, kissed him on both cheeks, gave a cheery wave to the rest of the company, then went out, chuckling happily. The Burgomaster was delighted with their setback at the Palace. He believed that the company had deliberately chosen its finest play to offer to the city while reserving an inferior one for the Archbishop and his guests. Firethorn used the unexpected bounty in the most practical way.
‘Order a feast!’ he said, tossing the money to Elias. ‘We will spend our last night here in revelry. And do not be downhearted,’ he told his company. ‘We have only been rebuffed by an Archbishop, a Duke, and a mere Abbot today. They are of no significance to a company which will soon be winning plaudits from an Emperor.’