‘It must be twofold,’ he told Firethorn.
‘Speak on, Nick.’
‘The Roaring Boy must not mention Sir John Tarker by name or that will invite censorship for sure. Edmund will devise a suitable disguise for the character. Nobody will hear the name of Tarker but everyone will recognise it.’
‘What is your other strategy?’
‘We make use of our patron, Lord Westfield.’
‘In what way?’
‘He is a personal friend of the Master of the Revels.’
‘True. He and Sir Edmund Tilney often dine together.’
‘We must ask Lord Westfield to submit The Roaring Boy on our behalf,’ said Nicholas. ‘A word from him in the ear of a boon companion may get the piece read and licensed much sooner than would otherwise be the case.’
‘Your advice as ever is sound.’
Nicholas took the opportunity to grasp another nettle. ‘Let me add more of a personal nature.’
‘Personal?’
‘Have your tooth pulled by a surgeon,’ said Nicholas. ‘A little pain now will spare you a lot of agony in the future. You claim that the discomfort has gone but that swelling in your cheek argues the contrary case.’
‘Leave my tooth alone. It is not relevant here.’
‘It is if it keeps you off the stage again.’
‘It will not!’ snapped Firethorn, feeling a menacing tingle in his gum. ‘Simply forget my toothache and it will go away. Stoke up the fire with constant carping about it and my mouth is an inferno. You mean well, Nick, I know that. But your concern is unfounded. Trust me, dear heart. A dozen bad teeth will not keep me away from The Roaring Boy. They will simply make Freshwell roar all the louder.’
Nicholas Bracewell accepted the promise and backed off.
His strategy with regard to the Master of the Revels was a shrewd one. It was the book holder’s job to take each new drama to Sir Edmund Tilney’s office and pay the fee to have it read. Delays were normal and often very lengthy. Since The Roaring Boy relied on its topicality, it was essential to bring it into the light of day as quickly as possible. Lord Westfield served his players well. A tactful word to his friend and a troublesome play was granted an immediate licence with hardly a line of the work altered.
Edmund Hoode took much of the credit for its apparent harmlessness. Sir John Tarker was featured as The Stranger and accused by inference rather than name. The real power of The Roaring Boy lay not in the lines that were spoken but in the action that went on between them. Hoode had contrived to damn Sir John Tarker in the most visible way possible. There was a cunning reference to the latter’s jousting skills and many other hidden clues that would be instantly recognised by those who knew the knight. His identity would be trumpeted to the skies.
While performances continued to be given at the Queen’s Head in the afternoons, the leading members of the company rehearsed the new play secretly in the evenings. Hired men were not brought into the venture at this point. Their parts were too small to be of significance and Nicholas argued that the fewer people who knew the true substance of The Roaring Boy, the less chance there was of any details of its contents falling into the wrong hands.
Hard work, punishing hours and the constant strain of being on guard inevitably took their toll and frayed tempers occasionally rocked a rehearsal. Barnaby Gill exploded like a powder keg at regular intervals, torn between delight at the leading role he had been assigned and trepidation at the consequences of playing it. But he was always calmed by the others and equilibrium was soon re-established. The Roaring Boy took on real shape and was ready for its premiere well ahead of the original schedule. It was inserted into the company’s programme at once. Lawrence Firethorn supervised the printing of the playbills himself. In sonorous tones, he read one of them out to his fellows.
THE ROARING BOY
Being the Lamentable and True Tragedy
of M. Brinklow of Greenwich
Most wickedly murdered by foul means
Supposedly at the behest of a wanton wife
It was enough to ignite great interest without giving too much away. Whatever else might happen at the performance of the play, Westfield’s Men could rely on getting a large and excitable audience. A savage murder involving an adulterous wife was a cautionary tale that none could resist.
***
Orlando Reeve was less than pleased to be sent back to the Queen’s Head to sit on a crowded bench and endure the stench of horse manure and the stink of the commonalty that rose up in equal parts from a packed courtyard. What increased his dismay was the fact that his pay-master this time was not the bounteous Sir Godfrey Avenell but the tight-fisted Sir John Tarker. While the former loved music, the latter was openly contemptuous of musicians and treated Reeve with a disdain which he found quite intolerable. Tarker’s command could not be ignored, however, so the second ordeal had to be faced.
The play on offer that afternoon was Mirth and Madness but Orlando Reeve was untouched by either. A rumbustious comedy sent the audience into an almost continuous spasm of laughter but the adipose musician remained stony-faced. Only the work of Peter Digby and his consort brought any relief to a grim afternoon for him. When the performance was over, he cornered his old friend in the taproom. Digby was astounded to see him again and wondered why Reeve was so eager to buy him a cup of wine and talk about former times. Not wishing to stay in the noisy tavern any longer than he had to, the visitor swiftly guided the conversation around to The Roaring Boy.
‘I see that you play the murder of Thomas Brinklow.’
‘On Saturday next.’
‘A warning to all men foolish enough to marry.’
‘His wife may not be the villain that you imagine.’
‘Indeed?’
‘She was the victim of a plot conceived by another.’
‘Tell me more of this, Peter.’
‘I may not,’ said Digby, remembering the dire warnings issued by Lawrence Firethorn. ‘I am sworn to secrecy. We have enemies all around us and have built a wall of silence to keep them at bay. But this I may tell you. The Roaring Boy will blaze across the stage. Westfield’s Men have not had such a play in years.’
‘Does it have songs and dances?’
‘All our work contains those, Orlando.’
‘And incidental music between scenes?’
‘I have composed it all.’
‘What yet remains to exercise your talents?’
‘A tuneful setting for the ballad.’
‘Ballad?’
‘It begins the play,’ said Digby, ‘and tells what lies ahead. It is a simple enough task to match it to music but I have not yet found the trick of it. I am too bound up with composition of a more serious kind to master the ballad-maker’s art.’
‘Perhaps I may help,’ volunteered the oleaginous Reeve.
‘It is beneath the dignity of a Court musician.’
‘Not so. I turned my hand to ballads in younger days. Give me but the first verse, then hum your tunes for me. I’ll help you choose the one most apt.’ He poured the hesitating Digby another cup of wine and gave him a flabby grin. ‘Come, Peter. One verse will break no solemn vow of secrecy. I come to you as a fellow-musician. Sing it in my ear.’