'Does not your father say the like?'
'Word for word,' replied Grace. 'I nod and curtsey in his presence then follow my inclination when lie is gone. Life is too short to have it marred by a foolish parent.'
'You speak true!' said Isobel with spirit.
'I would see my warbling poet this afternoon.'…
'Then so will I.'
'And if you cannot disobey your father?'
'What must I do?'.
'Mask your true intention.'
Grace Napier lifted up the feathered mask that hung from a ribbon at her wrist. Placing it over her own face, Isobel Drewry giggled in triumph. It was a most effective disguise and would hide her from any Aldermanic wrath. She thanked her friend with a peck on the cheek. Of the two, Isobel was by far the more extrovert and assertive. Not for the first time, however, it was the quiet Grace who turned out to have the stronger sense of purpose.
*
Cupids Folly was an ideal choice for The Curtain. On a bright summery afternoon, a pastoral comedy was much more acceptable to an audience that tended to be unruly if it was not sufficiently entertained. Dances and sword pi ay were the favoured ingredients at The Curtain, and Westfield s Men could offer both in abundance. Barnaby Gill was primed to do no less than four of his jigs and there were several comic duels to punctuate the action. Still jangled by their experience at the Queens Head, the company could relax slightly now. Cupid's Folly was harmless froth.
'Is my cap straight, Nick?' asked Edmund Hoode.
Too straight for any shepherd.'
And now? said the other, adjusting its angle.
'It is perfect. But do not shake so or the cap will fall off.'
'There is no help for it.'
'What frights you, Edmund?'
'It is not fear.'
Nicholas understood and left the matter tactfully alone. He had seen the subtle changes that Hoode's role underwent during the rehearsal. Flowery verse had been introduced into his speeches. Deep sighs were now everywhere. The lovelorn shepherd explored the outer limits of sorrow. The part had been cleverly reworked. It was Youngthrust in a sheepskin costume.
'Let's you and I speak together,' said Hoode.
'At your leisure, Edmund.'
'When the play is done?'
'And I am finished here.'
The book holder moved off to make a final round of the tiring-house before calling the actors to order. It was almost time to begin. There was the usual mixture of nervousness and exhilaration.
They had a full audience with high expectations. It would be another day of glory for Westfield's Men-and not a devil in sight!
Barnaby Gill marshalled the womenfolk in the play.
'Kiss me on the forehead in the first scene, Martin.'
'Yes, master,' said Martin Yeo.
'And do not fiddle with my beard this time. Dick?'
'Master Gill?'
'Be more sprightly in our dance. Toss your hands thus.'
Richard Honeydew nodded as the actor demonstrated what he meant.› As for you, Stephen, do sweeten your song.'
'Am I too low, master?' asked Stephen Judd.
'Indeed, yes. You are a shepherdess, sir, and not a bear in torment. Do not bellow so. Sing softly. Please the ear.'
'I will try, Master Gill.'
The three apprentices made very convincing females in their skirts, bodices, and bonnets. Young, slender and well-trained in all the arts of impersonation, they were skilful performers who added to the lustre of the company's work. Cupid's Folly made no real demands on them. All three took the roles of country wenches who were pursued in vain by the diseased and doddering Rigor-mortis. Pierced by Cupid's arrow in the opening scene, the old man fell in love with every woman he saw and yet, ironically, spurned the one female who loved him. This was Ursula, a rural termagant, fat, ugly and slothful but relentless in her wooing. She chased the object of her desire throughout the play and finally bore off the reluctant groom across her shoulders.
Barnaby Gill luxuriated in the part of Rigormortis. Apart from giving him the chance to display his full comic repertoire, it allowed him a fair amount of licensed groping on stage, particularly of Richard Honeydew, the youngest, prettiest and most tempting of the apprentices. Gill's proclivities were no secret to Westfield's Men and they were tolerated because of his talent, but there was a tacit agreement that he would not seduce any of the boys into his strange ways. He had to look outside the company for such sport. Cupid's Folly did not abrogate that rule but it gave his fantasies some scope.
'How do I look, Master Gill?'
'God's blood!'
'Am I ill-favoured enough, sir?'
'You would frighten the eye of a tiger!'
'When shall I kiss you on stage?'
'As little as possible.'
The lantern-jawed John Tallis had been padded out as Ursula and fitted with a long, bedraggled wig of straw-coloured hue. Cosmetics had turned an already unappealing face into a grotesque one. The thought of being embraced by such a hideous creature made Gill shiver.
'Oh, the sacrifices that I make for my art!'
'Shall I practise carrying you?' said Tallis helpfully.
'Forbear!'
'I only strive to please, master.'
'Then keep your distance.'
The voice of Nicholas Bracewell now stilled the hubbub.
'Stand by, sirs!'
The play was about to start. During its performance, Nicholas ruled the tiring-house. In spite of his leading role, Barnaby Gill was subservient to him. Even Lawrence Firethorn, cast as a frolicsome lord of the manor, acknowledged his primacy. Actors had their hour upon the stage. Behind it-where so much frenetic activity took place-the book holder held sway. The audience would see Cupid's Folly as a riotous comedy that bowled along at high speed but it was also a complicated technical exercise with countless scene changes, costume changes, entrances and exits. It needed the controlling hand of a Nicholas Bracewell.
The trumpet sounded above and they were away.
After the shortcomings of the Queen's Head, playing at The Curtain was a pure delight. Located in Shoreditch, it was a tall, purpose-built, circular structure of stout timber. Three storeys of seating galleries jutted out into a circle and this perimeter area was roofed with thatch. Open to the sky, the central space was dominated by an apron stage that thrust out into the pit. High, handsome and rectangular, it commanded the attention of the whole playhouse. At the rear of the acting area was a large canopy supported on heavy pillars that came up through the stage. I lie smooth inner curve of the arena was broken by a flat wall, at each end of which was a door. Directly behind the wall was the tiring-house.
The place was a superb amphitheatre with attributes that the Queen's Head could never offer. There was an additional bonus. It had no Alexander Marwood. There was no prevailing atmosphere of gloom, no long-faced landlord to depress and inhibit them. The Curtain was a theatre designed expressly for the presentation of plays. It conferred status on the actors and their craft.
‘Come, friends, and let us leave the city's noise
