‘What a splendid creature she is!’ he mused.
‘Who?’
‘Why, Rose Marwood, of course.’
‘A pleasant enough girl, to be sure.’
‘She is a young woman in her prime,’ said Kindell. ‘I never see her but I think what a blessing it is that she does not resemble either of her parents. They are ogres whereas their daughter is a portrait of delight.’
Hoode was surprised. ‘Is she?’
‘Surely, you must have noticed.’
‘Rose Marwood?’
‘Who else? Low-born, perhaps, but quite lovely.’
‘My God!’
Edmund Hoode had mild convulsions as another revelation hit him. Rose Marwood had been inches away from him yet he had been untroubled either by desire or guilt. Her shapely body usually aroused at least a distant lust in him and he was forever haunted by the memory of a time when he had rashly bestowed his affections on her to the point of writing a sonnet in praise of her. Rose Marwood’s inability to read had rescued him from real embarrassment and he never met her without being reminded of his earlier folly.
Until now, that is. Proximity to those deliciously full ruby lips, those gleaming white teeth, those dimpled cheeks, those sparkling eyes and all the other attributes of her urgent femininity no longer unsettled him. Edmund Hoode was impervious to her and, by extension, to the seductive presence of women in general. He had finally conquered his demons. The hideous perils of romantic passion were a thing of the past. That was the insight he now gained. Unencumbered by his disastrous involvement with the fairer sex, his life at last had meaning, direction and dignity.
Happiness was celibacy.
The Insatiate Duke presented a similar argument in dramatic terms. Debauchery was the road to despair. Virtue lay in monastic solitude. The rewards of virginity outweighed all of the temporary pleasures of concupiscence. It was not the most endearing message to thrust upon an audience which had come in search of rousing entertainment and which contained a fair scattering of prostitutes, courtesans, wayward wives and lecherous gallants, but it was offered in such a cunning and persuasive way as to sweep all resistance aside. Dark, powerful and harrowing, The Insatiate Duke was nevertheless shot through with moments of wild comedy. Laughter was mixed liberally with sorrow.
New facets of Edmund Hoode’s talents were on display. Even his closest friends in the company were astonished.
‘What has got into him?’ asked Lawrence Firethorn.
‘He excels himself,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘I have never seen Edmund attack a part with such verve. The wonder of it is, he all but outshines me, Nick. Me, the appointed star in this particular firmament, the smiling villain, the insatiate and tyrannical Duke of Parma. Humbled by a creeping Cardinal, a pale-faced eunuch in a red robe.’
‘Edmund’s finest hour.’
‘In one of his best pieces.’
‘Lucius Kindell must take some credit for that,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘They collaborated on the play.’
‘True,’ agreed Firethorn, ‘but Edmund Hoode deserves all the plaudits for Cardinal Boccherini. It is the performance of his lifetime. The part fits him like a glove. Heavens, man, he actually stole a scene from me.’
‘He will steal another if you miss your entrance,’ warned Nicholas, one ear on the progress of the play. ‘Cardinal Boccherini has come to confront you.’
‘A worthy adversary, indeed!’
A fanfare sounded and Cosimo, Duke of Parma, strode out onto the stage with his entourage. He and the Cardinal were soon engaged in a long, heated debate about moral responsibility. Lawrence Firethorn was at his best in the leading role, sleek and sinister, unperturbed by the charges levelled at him and justifying his villainy in the most shameless way. Edmund Hoode could not match his raw power but he brought a nobility and sincerity to his role which commanded attention.
The verbal duel between the two actors was a mixture of fury and eloquence. Italian cardinals rarely gained sympathy from a Protestant audience such as the one which filled the yard at the Queen’s Head that day but Cardinal Boccherini was an exception to the rule. Spectators were cheering him on. They were accustomed to watching brilliant performances from Lawrence Firethorn, the actor-manager with Westfield’s Men, but they had never seen Edmund Hoode, so often confined to a cameo role, reach such heights.
Nicholas Bracewell watched from behind the scenes. Owen Elias stood beside him and shook his head in wonderment. A swaggering actor of great versatility, the Welshman was quick to admire the abilities of his colleagues.
‘Has he been drinking, Nick?’ he asked.
‘Edmund?’
‘Is that ale we can hear or canary wine?’
‘Neither, Owen. He is as sober as you and I.’
‘Then something he has eaten has put that fight into him. Find out what it was and the whole company can dine off it henceforth. Let us all profit from this magical sustenance.’
‘Food and drink are not responsible,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then what?’
‘See for yourself.’
‘Witchcraft?’
‘No, Owen.’
‘Then he must be in love again.’
‘I think not.’
‘This shower of sparks is aimed at some pretty face up in the gallery, I wager. Edmund Hoode is ensnared once more.’
‘Only by his art.’
‘What say you?’
‘That is all we are witnessing,’ decided Nicholas with a quiet smile. ‘Sheer histrionic skill.’
‘Why have we never seen it in such abundance before?’
‘He lacks your confidence.’
‘Not any more, Nick. Listen to him. This cardinal has such a supple tongue that it could make me turn Roman Catholic and swear allegiance to the Pope.’
‘Stand by!’
With a wave of his arm, Nicholas motioned two soldiers in armour forward. On their cue, they marched onto the stage and laid violent hands upon Cardinal Boccherini. The audience let out a communal gasp of shock. As the prelate was hauled off to the dungeon, spectators began to hiss and protest at the cruel treatment meted out to him. The Duke of Parma revelled in their disapproval and gloried in his wickedness. He also took full advantage of his finest scene in the play.
In calling Duke Cosimo to account for his sinfulness, the fearless Cardinal had been trying to protect the virtue of the beauteous Emilia, a novice from the convent who had caught the Duke’s lascivious eye. Elected to be the Duke’s latest victim, she was now defenceless. What Cosimo did not know, however, was that Emilia was in fact his own daughter, conceived in a moment of lust with a lady-in-waiting at the Milanese Court. When Emilia was summoned to the Duke’s bedchamber to serve his pleasure, a groan of horror went around the inn yard. Spectators were aware of the true relationship between the couple. Not only was a helpless virgin about to be defiled, she would be forced unwittingly to commit incest.
Richard Honeydew, the youngest of the apprentices, gave a moving performance as Emilia; brave, honest, devout but hopelessly caught in a web of corruption. His tearful pleas for mercy were heart-rending to all but the cruel Duke, who demanded that Emilia surrender her body to him. The novice took a deep breath before delivering her valedictory speech.
‘Hold still, dread lord.
Duty and conscience wrestle in my mind.
I owe obedience to a royal Duke,
The voice of death in Parma here,
A mighty power before whom subjects quake
And even high-born nobles bend the knee
In supplication. My duty tells me
Straight I should comply with your imperious