Nicholas took him through a second door and down a long passageway so that his visitor could step out into Gracechurch Street without having to go back through the yard. The book holder stopped him in the open doorway.
‘There is another matter I would like to raise.’
‘Be brief. I, too, have a rehearsal to attend.’
‘One of your actors is a boy called Philip Robinson.’
‘A gifted child in every way.’
‘He was impressed against his will into the Chapel.’
‘Who told you so?’
‘The boy’s father. He petitions for his son’s return.’
‘Then he does so in vain.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Philip is happy with us,’ said Parsons bluntly. ‘Extremely happy. Farewell, sir.’
With a brusque nod, he swept out into the street.
Chapter Six
For the rest of the morning, Nicholas Bracewell was so bound up in his duties that he had no time to reflect upon the unexpected visit of Raphael Parsons or to indulge in any speculation about the true feelings of Philip Robinson towards the Children of the Chapel Royal. Preparation for the afternoon’s performance was his abiding concern, and The Maids of Honour gave him much to prepare. His first task was to prevent the stagekeeper from assaulting his smallest and lowliest assistant.
‘No, no, no, George! You are an idiot!’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so because I know so!’ shouted the irate Thomas Skillen. ‘You have set out the wrong scenery and the wrong properties for the wrong play.’
‘Have I?’ George Dart scratched his head in disbelief. ‘I thought The Maids of Honour called for a bench, a tree, a rock, a tomb, a well and three buckets.’
‘You are thinking of The Two Maids of Milchester.’
‘Am I?’ he said, blushing with embarrassment. ‘Why, so I am! We need no bench and buckets here. Our play demands a wooden canopy, a large bed, a stool, Mercury’s wings and a rainbow. Tell me I am right.’
‘You are even more wrong,’ hissed the other, taking a first wild swipe at him. ‘Dolt! Dunce! Imbecile! Mercury’s wings and the rainbow belong in Made to Marry. Have I taught you nothing?’
Four decades in the theatre had made Thomas Skillen an essentially practical man. Actors might covet a striking role and authors might thrill to the music of their own verse, but the stagekeeper summarised character and language in terms of a few key items.
‘Table, throne and executioner’s block.’
‘Yes, yes,’ gabbled Dart.
‘We play The Maids of Honour.’
‘Table, throne and executioner’s block. I’ll fetch them straight.’ He scampered off but came to a sudden halt. His face was puckered with concentration. ‘The Maids of Honour? There is no executioner’s block in the piece. Why do you send for it?’
‘So that I may strike off your useless head!’
The old stagekeeper lunged at his hapless assistant, but Nicholas stepped good-humouredly between them. Dart cowered gratefully behind his sturdy frame.
‘Let me at the rogue!’ shouted Skillen.
‘Leave him be,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘George confused his maids of honour with his maids of Milchester. A natural mistake for anyone to make. It is not a criminal offence.’
‘It is to me!’
‘Does it really merit execution?’
‘Yes, Nick. Perfection is everything.’
‘Then are we all due for the headsman’s axe, Thomas, for each one of us falls short of perfection in some way. George is willing and well intentioned. Build on these virtues and educate him out of his vices.’
Skillen’s anger abated and he chortled happily.
‘I frighted him thoroughly. He will not misjudge The Maids of Honour again.’ He gave a toothless grin. ‘Will you, George?’
‘Never. Table and throne. I’ll find them presently.’
‘No need,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the makeshift stage. ‘The table stands ready. Nathan Curtis was here at first light to repair it. And he is even now putting some blocks of wood beneath the throne to heighten its eminence.’
‘What shall I do, then, Master Bracewell?’
‘Fetch the rest of the properties.’
Skillen took his cue. ‘Act One. First scene, table and four chairs. Second scene, a box-tree. Third scene, curtains and a truckle-bed within. Fourth scene, the aforesaid throne. Fifth scene…’
The rapid litany covered all seventeen scenes of the play and left Dart’s head spinning. He raced off to gather what he could remember and to stay out of reach of the old man’s temper. Nicholas looked fondly after him.
‘You are too hard on the lad, Thomas.’
‘Stern schoolmasters get the best results.’
‘George has too much to learn in too short a time.’
‘That is because of his stupidity and laziness.’
‘No, it is not,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘We overload him, that is all. This season, Westfield’s Men will stage all of thirty-six different plays, seventeen of them, like Jonas Applegarth’s, entirely new. Asking George Dart to remember the plots and properties of thirty-six plays is to put an impossible strain on the lad.’
‘I know what each play requires,’ said Skillen proudly.
‘You are a master of your craft, Thomas. He is not.’
The old man was mollified. He loved to feel that his age and experience were priceless assets to the company. After discussing the play at greater length with him, Nicholas went off to tackle the multifarious chores that awaited him before the rehearsal could begin. He could spare only a wave of greeting to each new member of the company who drifted into the yard.
Edmund Hoode came first, buoyed up by the thought that his admirer might send him another token of her love or perhaps even reveal her identity. Barnaby Gill shared his mood of elation, though for a more professional reason. The Maids of Honour was one of his favourite plays because it gave him an excellent role as a court jester, with no less than four songs and three comic jigs. Owen Elias and James Ingram arrived together, deep in animated conversation. Three of the boy apprentices came into the yard abreast, giggling at a coarse jest. The fourth, Richard Honeydew, strolled in with Peter Digby, the director of the musicians.
Lawrence Firethorn, predictably, timed his entrance for maximum effect, clattering into the yard on his horse when everyone else was assembled there and raising his hat in salutation. From the broad grin on his face, his colleagues rightly surmised that he had tasted connubial delight that morning with his wife, the passionate Margery, a fact which was corroborated by the sniggers of the apprentices, who lived under the same roof as the actor-manager and who had heard every sigh of ecstasy and every creak of the bed. Silent pleasure was a denial of nature in the Firethorn household.
‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said, dismounting beside the book holder. ‘Is all ready here?’
‘Now that you have come, it is.’
‘Then let us waste no more of a wonderful day.’
He tossed the reins to a waiting ostler, then strode off towards the tiring-house. Nicholas called the rest of the company to order and had the stage set for the first scene.
The Maids of Honour was a staple part of their repertoire, played for its reliability rather than for any intrinsic merits. A sprightly comedy with a political thrust, it was set in the French Court at some unspecified period in the past. The King of France is deeply troubled by rumours of a planned assassination. The Queen dismisses his fears until an attempt is made on his life but thwarted by the brave intercession of the Prince of Navarre, a guest at the Court.
Convinced that someone inside the palace is helping his enemies, the King lets his suspicions fall on the three maids of honour who attend the Queen. She is outraged by the suggestion that her most cherished friends could plot the overthrow of her husband, but the King follows his own intuition. Disguising himself as an Italian nobleman, he tests each maid of honour in turn to see if she can be corrupted by the promise of money. Two of them welcome his advances, proving that they have neither honour nor maidenhead; but the third, Marie, the plain girl matched with two Court beauties, vehemently rejects his blandishments.