the utmost care.
Nicholas unlocked the chest with a key then lifted up the lid to reveal a confused welter of parchment and scrolls. The history of his involvement with Lord Westfield’s Men was all there, written out in various hands then annotated by himself. As he ran his eye over the ealiz prompt copies, a hundred memories came surging back at him from his past. He quickly reached for the manuscripts that lay on the very top of the pile then closed the lid firmly. When the chest had been locked, he pushed it back to its home beneath the bed.
After taking his leave of Anne, he walked across to the nearby wharf to be ferried by boat across the river. The Thames was thronged with craft of all sizes and they zigzagged their way across the busiest and oldest thoroughfare in London. Nicholas loved the exuberance of it all, the hectic bustle, the flapping sails, the surging colour, the distinctive tang and the continuous din that was punctuated by cries of ‘Westward Ho!’ and ‘Eastward Ho!’ from vociferous boatmen advertising their routes.
He had seen many astonishing sights in his travels but he could still be impressed anew by the single bridge that spanned the Thames. Supported by twenty arches, it was a miniature city in itself, a glorious jumble of timber- framed buildings that jutted out perilously over the river below. A huge water wheel of Dutch construction stood beneath the first arch, harnessing the fierce current that raced through the narrow opening and pumping water to nearby dwellings.
On the Bridge itself, it was Nonesuch House that dominated, a vast, ornate and highly expensive wooden building which had been shipped from Holland and reassembled on its stone foundations. A more grisly feature could be seen above the gatehouse tower where the heads of executed traitors were displayed on poles. Nicholas counted almost twenty of them, rotting in the morning sun as scavenger kites wheeled down to peck hungrily at the mouldering flesh. London Bridge was truly one of the sights of Europe but it embodied warning as well as wonder.
When he alighted on the other bank, Nicholas paid and tipped his boatman then made his way to the teeming Gracechurch Street.
Roger Bartholomew was waiting for him outside The Queen’s Head in a state of high anxiety.
‘I got your message, Nicholas.’
‘Good.’
‘Did he read my play?’
‘Yes, Master Bartholomew. So did I.’
‘Well?’ The poet was on tenterhooks.
‘It’s a fine piece,’ praised Nicholas, trying to find something positive to say that would cushion the disappointment. ‘It has memorable speeches and stirring moments. The account of the battle itself is very striking.’
‘Thank you. But what of Lawrence Firethorn.’
Everything hung on the decision. For Roger Bartholomew, it was a last hope of a career as a playwright. Acceptance would nourish him and rejection would destroy. Nicholas hated to be the one to deal the blow. What he could do was to conceal the virulence of Firethorn’s attack on the play.
‘I believe that he…saw its promise as well.’
‘And the leading role?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Did it captivate him as I foretold?’
‘To a degree, sir. He recognized the extent of your talent.’
‘Then he wishes to present it?’ asked the poet with a wild laugh. ‘Lord Westfield’s Men will offer me another contract?’
‘Unhappily, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it docs not fit in with our plans, sir.’
Roger Bartholomew was stunned. An Enemy Routed had become his obsession and he thought of nothing but the day when it would first be staged. He had put his whole being into the play. If his work was rejected then he himself was being cast aside as well-
‘Are you sure that he read it?’ he demanded.
‘I can vouch for it.’
‘Make him reconsider.’
‘He will not, sir.’
‘But he must!’
‘There’s no point, Master Bartholomew.’
‘There’s every point!’ howled the other. ‘He does not ealize what is at stake here. My play is a work of art. It’s his sacred duty^ to bring it before the public.’
Nicholas reached into the leather bag he was carrying. Taking out one of the manuscripts that lay inside, he held it out to the scholar.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘Thank you for offering it to us but I’ve been told to return it herewith.’
‘Let me see Master Firethorn.’
‘That would not be wise.’
‘Is the man hiding from me?’
‘Indeed not, sir.’
‘Then I’ll hear this from his own lips.’
‘I strongly advise against it.’
‘You’ll not get in my way this time,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘Make an appointment for me. I mean to have this out with him in person and nothing will stop me.’
Nicholas felt that the truth would halt him. His attempt to protect the other from it had failed. It was time for plain speaking.
‘Master Firethorn does not like the play at all, sir.’
‘That cannot be!’ protested the author.
‘His comments were not kind.’
‘I won’t believe this, Nicholas!’
‘He could only bring himself to read a few scenes and he found them without interest. He was especially critical of your rhyming. You may talk with him if you wish, but he will only tell you the same thing in much rounder terms.’
Roger Bartholomew was dazed. Rejection was torment enough but an outright condemnation of him and his work was far worse. His face was ashen and his lip was trembling. He snatched his play back then turned all the venom he could muster upon Nicholas.
‘You lied to me, sir!’
‘I thought to spare you some pain.’
‘You led me astray.’
‘There was never a chance of your play being accepted.’ ‘Not while I have friends like you to thank!’
‘We already have a drama about the Armada,’ said Nicholas, indicating his leather bag. ‘I did warn you of that.’
‘You will all suffer for this,’ threatened Bartholomew, lashing out blindly with words. ‘I’ll not be treated this way by anybody, no, not by you, nor Master Firethorn, nor anyone in your vile profession. I want satisfaction for this and, by heaven, sir, I mean to get it!’
Vibrating with fury, he clutched his play to his chest then pushed past Nicholas to rush off at speed. The book holder watched him go then looked down at the leather bag that contained a copy of Gloriana Triumphant. Two plays on the same subject had brought different rewards to their authors. Once again, he was profoundly grateful that he was not a playwright in such a treacherous world as that of the theatre.
*
Barnaby Gill had been unhappy at first about the decision to promote Richard Honeydew to the title role of the new play. He had a high opinion of Martin Yeo's talent and felt that the older boy would bring more regal authority to the part of Gloriana. At the same time, he was ready to recognize the claims of Stephen Judd, who had improved his technique markedly in recent months and who had been an undoubted success in Love and Fortune as a wanton young wife. The lantern jaw of John Tallis put him out of the reckoning but the other two were powerful contenders.
