***
Saturday finally dawned and brought with it the prospect of release from the appalling tensions that had built up within the company. The stage was set up in the yard of the Queen’s Head and an attenuated rehearsal held that morning. Lawrence Firethorn did not wish to reveal anything to prying eyes. He simply walked his cast through the play to familiarise them with their movement around the boards and to acquaint them with the scenic devices that would be used. Hired men were slotted into minor parts for the first time. It was such a fraught occasion that they were grateful to Barnaby Gill when his spectacular fit helped to clear the air.
Forearmed against danger from without, Nicholas Bracewell also had to cope with a hazard from within. Alexander Marwood, the landlord of the Queen’s Head, enjoyed a nervous relationship with Westfield’s Men, believing that actors were little better than wild goats and that he never ought to place either his tavern or his nubile daughter within their lustful reach. He was a small, ageing, restless man with hollow cheek and haunted eyes. A few last strands of greasy hair still remained, not knowing whether to cling to the lost cause of his mottled skull or to fling themselves into the void after their fellows.
When Marwood scurried across his yard, his face was simultaneously twitching in three distinct areas. With an unerring instinct for misfortune, he could smell calamity in the air. His arms gesticulated wildly.
‘You bring trouble into my yard, Master Bracewell.’
‘We bring the biggest audience we have had for many a week and thereby put extra money in your purse.’
‘The Roaring Boy alarms me.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not know but I feel it in my bones.’
‘We cannot choose our plays to appease your anatomy.’
‘More’s the pity!’ said Marwood, as the three separate twitches met in the middle of his face to make his nose tremble violently. ‘I had this same presentiment before The Devil’s Ride Through London and what happened, sir? You all but burned my tavern to the ground.’
‘No fire is used in this play. You are safe.’
‘From conflagration, maybe. But what of the fire in the play’s subject? May not that flare up and scorch us?’
Nicholas calmed him with a mixture of argument and assurance but the book holder was by no means as confident as he sounded. The landlord, for once, had scented danger where it genuinely existed. Once it started, The Roaring Boy would be walking a tightrope between hope and terror.
The atmosphere in the tiring-house was as taut as a bowstring. As the hour of performance edged nearer, the whole company fell prey to niggling anxiety. Barnaby Gill gave way to bitter recrimination, Edmund Hoode flew into a sudden panic at the thought that Emilia Brinklow would be among the spectators to judge both him and his work, Owen Elias grew more pugnacious than ever and Lawrence Firethorn-intending to rally them with a high-flown speech that stressed the significance of the event before them-only succeeded in disseminating more unease. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to lead by example with the quiet efficiency which had become his hallmark.
‘Stand by, my lads!’ said Firethorn. ‘We are there!’
The bell in the nearby clocktower chimed twice and the performance began. As the consort played the introductory music, the spectators gave a concerted cheer. Packed into the yard and crammed into the benches, they positively buzzed with anticipation. The murder of such a decent and upright man as Thomas Brinklow was an emotive subject and their passions were already stirred. The Roaring Boy had no need to warm up an audience already simmering in the sunshine.
Simon Chaloner sat in the lower gallery beside Emilia Brinklow. He scanned the benches all around him for signs of danger but her attention never left the stage. This was the moment of truth for her. When Simon felt her tremble, he took her hand in his and found the little palm moist. Grateful for his love and support, Emilia tossed him a little smile, then watched the stage with beating heart.
Instead of the expected Prologue, the penitent figure of Cecily Brinklow stepped out from behind the arras. Richard Honeydew wore the plain dress, in which he would later go to his death, and an auburn wig. With cosmetic aid, the young apprentice was a most attractive and convincing wife. As a lute played in the gallery above him, he sang his ballad with a tearful simplicity that all but hushed the audience.
Ah me, vile wretch, that ever I was born,
Making myself unto the world a scorn;
And to my friends and kindred all a shame,
Blotting their blood by my unhappy name.
Unto a gentleman of wealth and fame,
(One Master Brinklow, he was called by name)
I wedded was to this man of great renown,
Living at Greenwich, close to London town.
This husband dear, my heart he fully won,
Until I met again with Walter Dunne,|
Whose sugared tongue, good shape and lovely look,
Soon stole my heart, and Brinklow’s love forsook.
The remorseful wife was not alone on stage for long. As each new character was mentioned in the plaintive song, he or she stepped out to take up position in a carefully arranged tableau. Spectators soon recovered their voices. Thomas Brinklow set off a ripple of sympathy and Walter Dunne was greeted with a hiss of anger, but it was the murderers themselves who provoked the loudest response. When Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias skulked on to the stage as Freshwell and Maggs, respectively, they were met with concerted abuse. Pictures of wickedness in their ragged garb, the two actors played on the spectators with roars of defiance and increased the general ire by making obscene gestures at them. Here were no wretched penitents. They were villains who clearly revelled in their villainy.
Cecily Brinklow waited for the uproar to abate before she sung verses that offered a whole new perspective on tragic events in a house in Greenwich.
The world reviles for e’er my hated name,
With Walter Dunne, I bear eternal blame.
But though we sinned together through the night,
To murder did we nobody incite.
Another hand unleashed these evil scrags
(The one called Freshwell, and the other Maggs)This cruel man had Thomas killed stone dead
But Walter Dunne and I hanged in his stead.
Who this foul demon is, our play will tell,
He dwells in London here but comes from hell.
Call him The Stranger until his face you espy.
Send him to the gallows to hang up high.
There was a gasp of disbelief as Edmund Hoode strode on to the stage in a long black cloak with a hat pulled down over his eyes. For the vast majority of those present, The Stranger was a sensational new element in the story. Could the law really have hanged Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne for a crime they did not commit? Was the play going to offer fresh evidence that would exonerate them and incriminate the dark figure on the stage? Who was the Stranger and why would he wish to have Thomas Brinklow so viciously killed?
Simon Chaloner was chilled by the sinister entrance of the newcomer. Emilia Brinklow stifled a cry with the back of her hand. Both of them marvelled at Edmund Hoode’s skill as an actor. The moon-faced playwright had been turned into a stealthy figure of doom. What neither of them realised was that the Stranger himself was sitting above them in the upper gallery, lurking in a shadowed corner and already smarting with discomfort. Sir John Tarker watched it all with growing frenzy.