‘Then you’ve surely betrayed him. Where you censure The Malevolent Comedy, Nicholas commends it highly. So do I, won over by its biting wit and merriment. Everyone admires it save Frank Quilter.’
‘I told you, Barnaby. I find the play empty.’
‘Not as empty as Edmund’s How to Choose a Good Wife. That was so full of cavities that we were in danger of falling through them.’
‘Yet you liked it at first,’ challenged Elias. ‘I remember you telling us so. You said that it gave you the chance to dominate the stage.’
‘Every play does that,’ said Gill, grandly. ‘Were I to take on the humblest role in any drama, I would still steal all the glory. And, yes, I did smile upon Edmund’s new comedy but only out of friendship. In all honesty, it really is a barren construction. Place it beside The Malevolent Comedy and it pales into invisibility.’
‘Edmund Hoode is still the better playwright,’ said Elias, loyally.
‘And a truly loveable man,’ said Quilter.
‘You talk of the past but I look only to the future. Edmund was supreme at one time, I grant you,’ conceded Gill, ‘but that time is gone. His star is in decline. We have been carrying him this last year.’
‘That’s unjust,’ protested Elias.
‘Mark my words, Owen. The days when Edmund Hoode wore the laurel wreath are behind us. Westfield’s Men need a sparkling new talent. I believe that we have it in Saul Hibbert.’
‘God forbid!’ cried Quilter.
‘He’s a proven master of comedy.’
‘But that’s not what we crave, Barnaby. Comedy will cheer the ignorant in the pit, and spread some cheap laughter among the gallants, but it will not stir their souls. Only tragedy can do that yet we have abjured it and are set to dwindle into mere comedians. Look to the Curtain,’ urged Quilter. ‘See what great success Banbury’s Men have had with Lamberto. Nick Bracewell says that it outweighed anything that we have presented this year. Tragedy is in demand and we should strive to provide it.’
‘Not when we have something as priceless as The Malevolent Comedy. It will be the envy of our rivals. Saul Hibbert is not just a playwright of rare promise,’ insisted Gill, wagging a finger, ‘he is a saviour in our hour of need.’ The others exchanged a sceptical glance. ‘Laudable as his achievements have been, talk no more of Edmund Hoode. He will soon fade into oblivion. The man we should toast,’ he said, raising his cup of wine, ‘is our redeemer — Saul Hibbert.’
Saul Hibbert stood in the middle of the empty inn yard and gazed at the makeshift stage that was being dismantled. What he saw in his mind’s eye were actors, strutting to and fro in his play, provoking laughter at every turn and winning spontaneous applause. After the modest success of his plays in Norwich and in Oxford, he was ready to test his mettle in the more demanding arena of the capital. Hibbert had no fear of failure. Convinced of his prodigious abilities, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he conquered London audiences. When he closed his eyes, he could hear an ovation filling the dusty inn yard where Westfield’s Men performed. Saul Hibbert’s name was on everyone’s lips.
‘Master Hibbert! Master Hibbert!’
It was also on the thin, down-turned, ulcerous lips of Alexander Marwood, the landlord of the Queen’s Head, a gaunt, wasted man of middle years with sparse hair and a nervous twitch that animated his face. The twitch was currently located at the tip of his nose.
‘Master Hibbert — a word with you, sir!’
Hibbert came out of his reverie to find that he was looking at the unsightly visage of the landlord, nose twitching violently as if not quite sure in which direction to settle. Alexander Marwood loathed actors, detested plays and despised those who wrote them. Though he regarded Westfield’s Men as a form of pestilence, he relied on the income that they brought in. As a consequence, he felt as if he were being crushed between the millstones of revulsion and need. In his codex, theatre was an abomination. Saul Hibbert was as disreputable and unwelcome as the rest of the company. Marwood was characteristically blunt.
‘You are slippery, sir,’ he said with open resentment. ‘Every time I try to speak with you, you wriggle out of my grasp like a fish.’
Hibbert was dismissive. ‘We have nothing to say to each other,’ he replied, flicking a wrist. ‘I am a guest here. You are at my beck and call.’
‘Guests are expected to pay for their rooms.’
‘Did I not give you money on account?’
‘Ten days ago. More rent is now due.’
‘In time, in time.’
‘Now,’ said Marwood, firmly. ‘If you want the best room that the Queen’s Head can offer, you must render up fair payment.’
‘Best room!’ echoed Hibbert with disgust. ‘If that is the finest you have, I would hate to see the others. My chamber is too small, too dirty and too poorly furnished. The linen is soiled and the place stinks almost as much as its disagreeable landlord.’
‘I’ll not hear any complaint against my inn.’
‘Then put your fingers in those hairy ears of yours or I’ll give you a whole catalogue of complaints. The room is unfit for human habitation.’
‘That should not trouble a rutting animal like you.’
Hibbert rounded on him. ‘Do you dare to abuse me?’
‘I state the facts,’ said Marwood, taking a precautionary step backwards. ‘If the room is dirty, then you have brought in the filth, for it is cleaned from top to bottom every day. As for the linen being soiled,’ he added, knowingly, ‘you and your visitors are responsible for that.’
‘Away with you!’
‘Not until I get my money.’
‘You’ll feel the point of my sword up your scrawny arse.’
‘Then I’ll send for officers to arrest you.’
‘I dignify the Queen’s Head by staying here.’
‘You’ve done nothing but drag it down to your own base level.’
‘I’ll not haggle with a mere underling like you,’ said Hibbert as he saw Nicholas Bracewell approaching them. ‘Talk to this fellow instead. He’ll vouch for me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Is that not so, Nick?’
‘What say you?’ asked Nicholas.
‘This cringing knave has the effrontery to demand money from me. Tell him that my credit is good. Rescue me from this hideous face of his.’
‘The landlord is entitled to be paid,’ said Nicholas, reasonably.
‘There!’ shouted Marwood. ‘There’s one honest man among you.’
‘Then you can discuss the matter honestly with him,’ decided Hibbert with a supercilious smile. ‘I’ll not speak another word to you. Nick,’ he said with a lordly gesture, ‘see to this rogue, will you?’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Get the whoreson dog off my back.’
‘This sounds like a matter between you and the landlord.’
‘Resolve it, man. That’s what you’re here for, is it not?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, stoutly.
‘You’re a book holder, paid to fetch and carry for the rest of us. So let’s have no more hesitation. Do as I tell you or there’ll be trouble.’
‘I take no orders from you, Master Hibbert.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Marwood, emboldened by the presence of Nicholas. ‘Settle your bill or I must ask you to quit your room.’
‘I’d have more comfort in a pig sty,’ returned Hibbert with a sneer. ‘Now keep out of my way, you apparition, or you’ll live to regret it.’ He pointed to Nicholas. ‘Badger this fellow in my stead. He’ll tell you who and what I am. Nick will solve this petty business in a trice.’
‘Why should I do that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Because I tell you.’
Saul Hibbert turned on his heel and strode off towards the door to the taproom. Nicholas contained his anger. Upset by the playwright’s cavalier attitude towards him, he resolved to take it up with Hibbert at a latter date. Meanwhile, he had to placate Alexander Marwood, a task he had been forced to undertake many times on behalf of the company.