Gill. Each had remarkable individual talents and their combined effect was quite dazzling. Most of the success enjoyed by Westfield's Men was due to the interplay of this unrivalled pair and yet they could not reach harmony offstage. They fought with different weapons. Firethorn used a verbal broadsword that whistled through the air as he swished it about while Gill favoured a poniard whose slender blade could slide in between the ribs. When argument was at its height, the former was all towering rage and bristling eyebrow where the latter opted for quivering indignation and pursed lips.
Edmund Hoode adopted a conciliatory tone.
'Gentlemen, gentlemen, you do each other a grave disservice. We are all partners in this business. As God's my witness, we have foes enough to contend with at this troublesome time. Let not headstrong words create more dissension. Desist, sirs. Be friends once more.'
The combatants took refuge in their drinks. Hoode was grateful that he had checked the quarrel before it got to the point where Gill always hurled accusations of unbridled tyranny at Firethorn who, in turn, retaliated by pouring contempt on the other's predilection for young boys with pretty faces and firm bodies. An uneasy silence hovered over the three men. Hoode eventually broke it.
'I have no stomach for touring in the provinces.'
'Beggars cannot be choosers,' said Gill.
'In my case, they can. I'd as lief stay in London and risk the plague as walk at the cart's tail halfway across England. There's no profit in that.'
'And even less in the city,' argued Firethorn. 'How will you live when your occupation is gone? You may be a magician with words, Edmund, but you cannot conjure money out of thin air.'
'I will sell my verses.'
'Your penury's assured,' said Gill maliciously.
'There are those who will buy.'
'More fool them.'
Lawrence Firethorn gave an understanding chuckle.
'I see the truth of it, Edmund. There is only one reason that could make you linger here to taste the misery of certain starvation. Why, man, you are in love!'
'Leave off these jests.'
'See how his cheeks colour, Barnaby?'
'You have hit die mark, Lawrence.'
'He scorns his fellows so that he may lodge his bauble in a tundish. While we tread the road in search of custom, he would be bed-pressing like a lusty bridegroom.' Firethorn gave his colleague a teasing nudge. 'Who is this fair creature, Edmund? If she can tempt you from your calling, she must have charms beyond compare. Tell us, dear heart. What is her name?'
Hoode gave a dismissive shrug. In matters of love, he had learned never to confide in Lawrence Firethorn, still less in Barnaby Gill. The one was a rampant adulterer who could seduce the purest maid while the other had nothing but contempt for the entire female sex. Edmund Hoode kept his own counsel. A tall, slim, pale, clean- shaven man in his thirties, he was an actor-playwright' with the company who had somehow resisted the coarsening effects of such an unstable life. He was an irredeemable romantic for whom the pains of courtship were a higher form of pleasure and . he was not deterred by the fact that his entanglements almost invariably fell short of consummation. His latest infatuation was writ large upon his face and he lowered his head before the mocking scrutiny of his companions.
Lawrence Firethorn was built of sterner stuff, a barrel-chested man of medium height who exuded power and personality, and whose wavy black hair, pointed beard and handsome features were a frontal assault on womanhood. Gill was older, shorter, stouter and attired with a more fastidious care. Morose and self-involved offstage, he was the most superb comedian upon it and his wicked grin transformed an ugly man into one with immense appeal.
Hoode was torn between his passion and his plays.
'Westfield's Men could well spare me.'
'Gladly,' said the waspish Gill.
I might join you later in the tour.'
'Come, Edmund,' said Firethorn, clapping him on the shoulder. 'No more talk of desertion. We are dumb idiots without our poet to put words into our mouths. You'll travel with us because we love you.'
'My heart is elsewhere.'
'And because we need you, sweet friend.'
Go forth without me.'
'And because you are contracted to us.'
Firethorn's curt reminder terminated the dispute. Being a sharer in the company imposed certain legal responsibilities upon Hoode. His freedom of action was limited. He blenched as yet another burgeoning romance withered on the stem.
Lawrence Firethorn sought to offer consolation.
'Courage, man!' he urged. 'Do not sit there like a lovesick shepherd. Consider what lies ahead. You forfeit one conquest in order to make others. Country girls were born for copulation. Unbutton at will. You can fornicate across seven counties until your pizzle turns blue and cries 'Amen to that!' Hark ye, Edmund.' Firethorn clapped his other shoulder. 'Westfield's Men are not being driven out of London. We are journeying to paradise!'
'Who is to be our serpent?' said Gill.
Nicholas Bracewell stood in his accustomed place behind the stage and controlled the performance with his quiet authority. As the company's book holder, he was a key figure in its affairs, prompting and stage managing every play which was mounted as well as supervising rehearsals and helping with the dozens of other tasks that were thrown up. A tall, imposing, muscular man, he had a face of seasoned oak that was set off by long fair hair and a Viking beard. Striking to the eye, he could yet become completely invisible during a performance, an unseen presence in the shadows whose influence was decisive and who pulled all the strings like a master puppeteer.
The play which was delighting the audience at the Queen's Head that afternoon was The Constant Lover, a gentle comedy about the problems of fidelity. It had become a favourite piece and Westfield's Men had offered it several times already. But it had never been staged in quite this way before.
'What now, Master Bracewell?'
'The silver chalice, George.'
'Upon the table?'
'Present it to the King.'
'When is the table to be set?'
'For the next scene.'
'The silver chalice again?'
'The gold goblet.'
George Dart did not usually get quite so flustered. He was an assistant stagekeeper and occasionally got pressed into service as a non-speaking extra. His duties in The Constant Lover were light and undemanding yet he was flummoxed before the end of Act One. It was quite understandable. Everyone in the company knew that this might be their last appearance in London for a long time and, in some cases, their last appearance upon any stage. Touring would inflict economies on the company. Its size would be reduced and its weekly wages would shrink. All the sharers would take to the road but the hired men would have to be carefully sifted. George Dart was one of them. Like his fellows, he was in a state of hysteria lest lie be rejected, knowing full well that those discarded might fall by the wayside completely. He therefore played his tiny role in The Constant Lover with a kind of confused urgency, mystified as to what came next yet eager to give of his best.
Nicholas Bracewell at once stilled the general panic and made allowances for it. Some of the actors out there were, literally, fighting for their lives. In striving too hard to do well, they often marred their chances. Nicholas had great sympathy for them all but his first duty was to the audience and he concentrated on keeping the play running as smoothly as possible. It meant that he had to adjudicate at several running duels.
'Did you ever see such wanton cruelty, Nick?'
'Stand by for your next entrance.'..
