‘Tell me about him, Leonard.’
‘George?’
‘No, the gentleman who was so interested in me. Describe him.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it was not a gentleman at all,’ said Leonard, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘It was a lady, a very beautiful young lady.’
Lawrence Firethorn was in no mood to conduct a rehearsal. After a sleepless night on the floor of his bedchamber, he ached and itched all over. True to her edict, his wife had kept him out of his bed and down on the bare boards in disgrace. Lord Loveless was anything but lordly in the morning but his sense of lovelessness had deepened markedly. With the apprentices trailing behind him, he rode off from Shoreditch in a daze. When his mind finally began to clear, it had to grapple with his dire predicament. Torn between competing claims on him, he knew that he had made an irrevocably bad decision. In trying to keep Saul Hibbert loyal to Westfield’s Men, he had been forced to suspend his book holder, scandalise his actors and, worst of all, estrange himself from his wife. He wished that he had never heard of The Malevolent Comedy.
The rehearsal was a shambles. Held to refresh the memories of the cast, it only concentrated on key scenes in the play. Since it began without any real commitment on the part of the actors, it quickly descended into farce. Firethorn was the worst offender.
‘George!’ he bellowed.
‘Yes?’ replied Dart, acting as prompter.
‘Give me the line.’
‘Which one, Master Firethorn?’
‘The one I’m struggling to remember, you idiot.’
‘There’ve been so many of those this morning.’
‘What am I supposed to say to Mistress Malevole?’
‘When?’
‘Now, George — now, now, now!’
Dart was flustered. ‘Which scene are we in?’
‘The one we started on ten minutes ago.’
‘I’ve found it. You and Mistress Malevole are in the garden.’
‘No, you imbecile!’ boomed Firethorn, flinging his hat on to the stage in his fury. ‘We did that scene an hour ago. This one takes place in the hall of my house. Are you sure that you have the right play in your hands? A prompter must be prompt and audible. You are neither.’
‘Do not hound him, Lawrence,’ advised Owen Elias. ‘You’ll only confuse him further. Try to build his confidence.’
‘He’s as useless as a Pope’s prick.’
‘You do him wrong,’ said Edmund Hoode, taking pity on Dart. ‘It was an act of stupidity to think you could turn him into Nick Bracewell.’
‘It would be easier to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’
‘George will not let us down if you treat him kindly.’
‘Kindly!’ roared Firethorn. ‘If he feeds me the wrong line again, I’ll tie him to the flagpole and hoist him to the top.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Back to the start of the scene,’ he ordered, ‘and let’s try to get it right this time, shall we?’
‘How can we when your memory is like a sieve?’ asked Gill.
‘Nobody invited your comment, Barnaby.’
‘I speak for all of us. You’ve stumbled badly throughout.’
‘Slander!’ said Firethorn over the murmurs of agreement. ‘I’m feeling for a new interpretation of the character, that’s all.’
‘And groping for your lines like a blind man.’
‘Silence!’
Gill smirked. ‘Whatever did Margery give you for breakfast today?’
The remark stung so hard that it set Firethorn off into a violent tirade against the Clown that was only ended when Elias and Hoode stepped in to keep the two men apart. Further rehearsal was impossible. The play was abandoned. The one saving grace was that its author had not been present to witness the general apathy and ceaseless parade of errors. Even the most assured comic moments had been thrown away.
‘Take heart, George,’ said Hoode, trying to console their little book holder. ‘You’ll have none of these problems this afternoon.’
‘I always lose my place when Master Firethorn shouts at me.’
‘He shouted at all of us today.’
Dart was wistful. ‘If only Nicholas had been here to bail us out,’ he said. ‘It’s a crime that he’s been deprived of his office for me.’
‘It’s more than a crime, George — it’s a vile sin.’
‘At the time when we need him most, he’s not here to help us.’
‘Nick would have been thoroughly ashamed of us this morning.’
‘And rightly so,’ said Dart. ‘Where is he?’
During the rehearsal, Nicholas Bracewell had deliberately kept out of the way, not wishing to embarrass his deputy or to subject himself to what was bound to be a painful exercise. He had never been asked to step down before and nursed a grievance that he did his best to keep to himself. On the other hand, he told himself, he could still serve the company by offering it the protection it needed. Much as he might resent Saul Hibbert, he wanted the play to go off without interruption. To that end, he and Leonard searched then sealed off all obvious hiding places for anyone intent on causing disarray. He also spoke to the gatherers on duty at the gate and instructed them to keep a close eye on the spectators as they were admitted. Anyone trying to bring small animals in was to be turned summarily away.
Long before the yard began to fill, Nicholas had retreated to a room that overlooked the stage from behind. Vacated by a traveller earlier that day, it was small, dark and infested with spiders but it was ideal for his purposes. It allowed him to watch unseen from above. Though much of the stage itself was obscured from him, he had a good view of the pit and the galleries. He kept the whole yard under surveillance. His eyesight was exceptionally sharp. During his voyage around the world with Drake, he had done his share of climbing into the crow’s nest to act as lookout. Rewards were offered for the first man to descry land and Nicholas made sure that he did not miss any opportunities. That same intense vigilance was now turned on the audience.
The galleries were replete with elegant young gentlemen but none of the dashing gallants fitted the description that Leonard had given of the fair-headed visitor. It was a different matter when it came to beautiful ladies. They were there in such abundance that Nicholas was spoilt for choice. The three aristocratic ladies in Lord Westfield’s entourage were quite dazzling and those elsewhere, bedecked with their finery, turned the galleries into a blaze of colour. The reputation of The Malevolent Comedy had patently spread, bringing in spectators from every level of society. Its problematical author, flamboyantly attired and seated beside yet another arresting beauty, was in the lower gallery.
The play started well and proceeded without mishap but it had none of the driving thrust of the earlier performances. Studying the reactions of the audience, Nicholas could see that they were not as engrossed as they should have been. They tittered when they should have laughed, laughed when they should have applauded and only came properly to life when Barnaby Gill entertained them with his jigs. Lord Loveless lacked authority, Mistress Malevole was muted and Edmund Hoode, as the comical priest, seemed to forget that he was performing in a comedy. While the play was continuously diverting, it never managed to realise its full potential.
For all that, it provided two fairly exhilarating hours for its audience and was happily free from any of the errors that had littered the rehearsal. Somewhere behind the scenes, George Dart was entitled to congratulate himself. The most important thing from Nicholas’s point of view was that no attempt was made to interrupt the performance. No poison, no dog, no fresh outrage. The Malevolent Comedy had finally been staged without attracting any malevolence. As a consequence, it was robbed of some of its tension and hilarity, but its cast had been spared and Nicholas was grateful for that.
The applause that greeted them as they came to take their bow was warm and generous. It did not compare, however, with the ovations that had been received on the two previous occasions. Keenly aware of that, Saul Hibbert looked deeply disappointed and Nicholas could see him apologising to his companion. For the author — as for others who knew the play — the performance had fallen far short of excellence. One man in the upper gallery seemed to relish the fact. Alone of the audience, he was not clapping at all. Instead, he looked on with a smile of satisfaction.