disliked before. Ruffs composure set him apart from most of the others and the boy drew strength from it. He was even ready to confide a secret.
'Do you know something, Samuel?'
'What?'
'I never thought I'd say this but.
'You wish Dick was here to play Gloriana.' Yes! How did you guess?'
‘It was not difficult, lad,' said Ruff with mild amusement. 'Shall ' tell you something now?'
'What?'
If Dick were in that costume, he'd be wishing that you were taking on the role instead.'
Nicholas Bracewell was grateful for someone like Ruff to act as a calming influence. Cold panic showed in most eyes and Edmund Hoode was a prime victim. After his sterling work throughout the night, he was now in danger of losing his nerve completely. Doubts about his play became uncertainties about himself and widened into questions about the whole validity of^ the playhouse. Here was creative suffering of a kind that nobody else could understand. Hoode therefore stalked the perimeter of the tiring-house on his own, finding more and more phantoms to assail him.
It was Nicholas himself who was the main antidote to the general hysteria. With his head still swathed in bandages, he exerted his usual cool control in a way that instilled peace. As long as the book holder was there, the company had a solid framework in which to operate. It heartened them. Nicholas went out of his way to pass a remark or two with those most in need of moral^ support. As people swirled to and fro in the tiring-house, he was there with friendly comments.
'The music was excellent yesterday, Peter.'
'Thank you.'
'It could not be improved upon…Thomas…'
'Yes, master?'
'We'll need to rely on you heavily today.'
'Oh, dear,' muttered the old stagekeeper.
'Your experience will be a rock.'
'I hope so.'
'Hugh…'
'Aye?' called the tireman, fluffing out petticoats for John Tallis.
'Those costume changes will need to be quick.'
'We can manage.'
'Especially Gloriana in the last act.'
'Two of us will be standing by.'
'George…'
'Here, master,' said Dart through a spectacular yawn.
'You were a Trojan last night.'
'Did Trojans run their legs off as well, then?'
'Try not to fall asleep too often.'
'How am I supposed to stay awake, Master Bracewell?'
'Gregory…'
'Not here!'
'Where is he?'
'Where do you think?'
'Again?'
The general laughter eased the tension. Everybody knew where^ the jangled Gregory was and it was his fourth visit. Like every other part of the playhouse, the privy made a significant contribution to the performance.
Nicholas fought off his fatigue and looked around the company.
Nerve ends were still raw, mouths were still dry and faces were still lack- lustre, but he sensed that the worst was past. They were professionals. The ordeal of the wait would evanesce into the excitement of the performance, and nobody would let himself down. Lord Westfield's Men would survive with honour. He actually began to look forward to it all.
Resplendent in his Italian doublet and Spanish cape, Lawrence Firethorn sidled over to whisper in his ear.
'Should I do it again, Nick?'
'What?'
'Speak to the troops.'
'Oh, no.'
'Have I done enough to lift them already?'
'More than enough,' said Nicholas tactfully.
'Good, good.'
'Lead by example now.'
It was, as ever, sound advice and Firethorn would take it. He walked away and went through his first speech in a hissed gabble. His book holder had just prevented him from causing even further disarray. The fragile calm which had now descended on the tiring-house would be preserved.
*
Sunshine gilded the tall, cylindrical structure of the playhouse and turned the arena itself into a chequered arrangement of light and shadow. The warmth of the sun produced more sweat and smell among the penny stinkards in the pit, and promoted the sale of beer, wine and water. By the same token, it caused mild discomfort in the galleries among the over-dressed gallants and the corseted ladies. There was no breeze to alleviate the heat.
George Dart would be needed as the west wind.
It was a glittering occasion. In noise, bustle, eagerness, vulgarity, style, colour, character and high fashion, it even outdid God Speed the Fleet. On a glorious afternoon in an English summer, The Curtain was truly a microcosm of the capital. All classes were accounted for, all tastes included. Courtiers displayed themselves above while criminals concealed themselves below. The middling sort were there in profusion. Accents varied, timbres differed. Wit repartee, banter and foul abuse were in play. High intelligence and bovine illiteracy shared the same space. The wooden circumference enclosed a veritable city.
Lord Westfield was there to enjoy the reflected glory of his company and to toss down patronizing smiles and waves to the actors. Dark, stocky and of medium height, he wore a doublet that accentuated his paunch and a hat that prevented anyone behind him from seeing the stage. There was a wilful extravagance about Westfield that showed itself in the excesses of his apparel and the size of his entourage. A cup of wine seemed always in his hand, a smile upon his lips. He was a middle-aged sybarite with all the defects that that implied, but his love of the theatre was genuine and his knowledge of its workings was close.
Sitting diametrically opposite him in another of the lords' rooms was the Earl of Banbury, there to mock and denigrate rather than to be entertained. He picked fussily at his goatee beard and passed disparaging remarks about the players. His own company were going through a comparatively lean patch and envy was never far away. Catching Westfield's eye across the playhouse, he gave a dismissive wave with his fingers and turned away, thus missing the expressive scowl on the other's face.
Lady Rosamund Varley made a startling entrance. As soon as she settled in her seat, necks craned and eyes popped. She was a rich blend of blues and whites and yellows, and there was no dress to match her. Happily conscious of the attention she was getting, she bestowed a radiant smile on the world.
Roger Bartholomew remained stonily silent amid the gathering tumult. Everything he saw fed his hate, everything he heard served to swell his rage. Instead of being a celebrated poet with the acclaim he deserved, he was an unsung nonentity with cruel wounds he did not merit. Something darker than envy, and deeper than vengeance, had wormed its way into his brain. It caused a persistent throb in his veined forehead.
Exiled from the stage that he coveted, he would make his bin for attention. They would all take note of him
