Swept away on a tide of emotion, he declaimed some more of Tarquin's soliloquies and filled the air with wonder.
Nicholas Bracewell became pensive then he clicked his fingers and nodded to himself. Edmund Hoode was close enough to mark his behaviour.
'Why do you nod so, Nick?'
'I think I have their secret, Edmund.'
'Who?'
'Banbury's Men.'
'Scurvy knaves! They have stolen our plays.'
'I believe I know how.'
Grantham gave them an ovation that lasted for some minutes and Giles Randolph luxuriated in it. There was a sizeable audience, culled both from the town and from the surrounding area of Lincolnshire, and they had never witnessed anything like Pompey the Great. Having come to watch the sort of pastoral romp that touring companies usually brought to them, the spectators were at first a trifle uneasy when they were confronted with a tale of military splendour and political intrigue, but they soon rallied as the drama unfolded with compelling skill. It was one of Edmund Hoode's most stirring achievements and Banbury's Men played it for all it was worth.
Giles Randolph gave them an intelligent and moving account of the central role but he did not have Lawrence Firethorn's martial presence or swelling power. The defects in his performance, however, were happily concealed from both himself and his audience. He was convinced that he had touched heights far beyond the reach of his hated rival, and that he had demonstrated his superiority in the most signal and humiliating way. Rippling applause fed his narcissism. In the theatre of his mind, he had left Firethorn dead and buried.
Celebrations were in order. Pompey the Great dined in style at a local inn with his company fawning avidly around him. After years in the shadow of Westfield's Men, it was heartening to sweep them aside and step out into the full glare of the sun.
Seated beside Giles Randolph was a thoughtful young man with an expression of quiet self-congratulation. The leading actor sought even more applause.
'Was I not inspired upon that stage, sir?'
'You were the very ghost of Pompey.'
'Did I not catch his greatness?'
'In every line and gesture, Master Randolph.'
'The audience loved me.'
'How could they not?'
'I walked in Elysium!'
Mark Scruton gave a smile of agreement. His whole future was vested in the success of Banbury's Men and he yielded to nobody in his appreciation of the talent of its star. All that Giles Randolph lacked was material of the highest calibre. In most of the plays from his own repertoire, he was never less than hypnotic but never more than brilliant. He was held back by the limitations of the a part in which he appeared. Given a drama of true merit, handed
Part into which he could pour himself body and soul, he could indeed approach magnificence.
Giles Randolph was not unaware of this himself.
'It is a well-wrought piece, ' he said grudgingly. 'Master Hoode is a fine poet.'
'That final speech would ring tears from a stone.'
'He has no equal in such scenes.'
'You speak true, sir,' said Randolph. 'Away with the scribbling of apprentice playwrights! Give me men who can write a rolling line. We have good plays but none to live with the magic of this Pompey. The confession is painful to me, but I would dearly love this Master Hoode to pen his work for Banbury's Men.'
'He does, Master. He does.'
Giles Randolph laughed in keen appreciation.
'When he reaches Grantham, he'll be most perplexed.'
'And cry out like the victim of a robbery.'
'With Master Firethorn howling 'Murder!' in his wake.' He became businesslike. 'We must keep a distance ahead of them. It will not serve if Westfield's Men overtake us. We'll come to blows in that event.'
'I have a device to slow them down completely.'
'Tell me what it is, Master Scruton.'
'Lend me an ear.'
Giles Randolph leaned close so that he could catch the other's whisper. A smirk lit up his dark features. He liked the notion so much that he slipped his companion a few coins by way of gratitude. It was but small payment to a man who was proving such a friend to Banbury's Men.
Mark Scruton was their saviour.
Night wrapped its black cloak around the Pomeroy Arms. Secure in the knowledge that an audience awaited them on the morrow, Westfield's Men rehearsed until evening then roistered until midnight. They fell into their beds and were soon asleep, dreaming sweetly in their contentment. Nicholas Bracewell shared a room with four others at the rear of the premises. Fond thoughts of Anne Hendrik flitted their way through his slumber and he might have enjoyed them all night had not something disturbed him. He was awake at once and looking around with bleary eyes. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness but he heard the others snoring in peaceful fellowship beside him. He listened carefully then realized what was wrong.
Someone was missing.
The distant clack of shoes on paved stone made him slip out of bed and cross to the window. He could just make out the tall figure of a man who was loping away from the inn. Nicholas shook his head to bring himself fully awake then strained his eyes against the gloom. The man reached higher ground and was silhouetted for a few seconds against the sky. It was enough. The book holder recognized him by his profile and his gait.
Christopher Millfield ran off into the night.
Westfield's Men improvised with characteristic skill on their journey to Ancient Rome. Sheets became togas, long daggers became short swords, bushes were pillaged for laurel wreaths and a high-backed chair was borrowed from the inn itself to do duty as a throne. Under the guidance of the book holder, actors turned carpenters to build a few simple scenic devices. Edmund Hoode's woodwork was directed at the play itself and he laboured hard with his chisel, saw and plane. Tarquin of Rome was a long drama with a large cast. Had they been performing it in a town the size of Bristol or Newcastle or Exeter, they could easily have recruited journeymen to make up the numbers but that option was denied to them here. The play had to be trimmed to fit their modest company, though, even in its attenuated version, it was still a powerful drama. Only a full-blooded performance and frantic doubling could bring it off. It was the kind of challenge that they liked.
Lawrence Firethorn gave them heart and hope.
Let's make the old house ring with exultation!'
Pomeroy Manor became a magnet for the local gentry. They came in droves to see the unlikely sight of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, seventh and last king of Rome, in the banqueting hall of a house in Hertfordshire. It was a revelation to them. On their makeshift stage, and with minimal scenery and costumes, Westfield's Men transported their spectators back some two thousand years or more.
Lawrence Firethorn thrilled them to the marrow with his portrayal of Tarquin, drunk with power and steeped in wickedness, enhancing the power and prosperity of Rome in order to exploit it for his own selfish ends.
It fell to Christopher Millfield to end the play.
Our soldiers brave subdue your coward band, Restoring peace unto our bloodied land. Beshrew your heart, foul tyrant, fade away. Honour rules upon this glorious day. Though cruel kings vile cruelties will send, Freedom's banner flutters at the end.
Neville Pomeroy leapt to his feet to lead the sustained applause for a play that had moved as much as it had entertained. Westfield's Men were feted. It made amends for all their setbacks. As they were leaving Pomeroy Manor, they had money in their purse and a triumph under their belt. It was invigorating.
