To seek the quieter paths of country joys.
For verdant pastures more delight the eye
With cows and sheep and fallow deer hereby,
With horse and hound, pursuing to their lair
The cunning fox or nimble-footed hare,
With merry maids and lusty lads most jolly
Who find their foolish run in Cupid's folly.’
The opening words of the Prologue set the tone admirably. When Barnaby Gill danced on stage to music, he was given a warm welcome. The audience knew where they were and liked what they saw. Rigormortis was quite irresistible. It was a performance of verbal dexterity, visual brilliance and superb comic timing. As the play progressed, it grew in stature. Each new love affair brought further complications and Gill milked the laughter with practiced assiduity.
Firethorn shone, too, as the lively Lord Hayfever but it was only a supporting role for once. The three apprentices made wonderful, nubile shepherdesses and John Tallis was an immediate success as the daunting Ursula. Nor was the romantic theme neglected. Edmund Hoode wallowed in a pit of poetic anguish and the female section of the audience was visibly touched. Watching from her cushioned seat in the gallery, Isobel Drewry was almost in tears as the lovesick shepherd bewailed his plight. Many of his lines seemed to be directed straight at Grace Napier and she herself was moved by the ardour of his appeal. The more she got to know of Hoode, the more fond of him she became but it was an affection that was tinged with sadness. He was so ready to commit himself wholeheartedly while Grace felt something holding her back.
Lord Westfield and his cronies preened themselves in their privileged seating and led the laughter at the wit and wordplay.
They were particularly diverted by a special effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. It came in a scene that was set in the garden of Lord Hayfever's house and which featured a large conical beehive. The amorous Rigormortis was paying his unwanted attentions to Dorinda, the winsome shepherdess. Refusing to be deflected by her protestations, he pursued her with such vigour around the beehive that his elbow knocked it over. A swarm of bees burst forth-a handful of black powder tossed covertly in the air by Gill himself-and angry buzzing sounds were made by members of the company secreted beneath the stage. Stung in a dozen tender places, Rigormortis ran and jumped his way offstage with a series of yelps and cries that made the audience rock with mirth.
Lord Westfield turned to his nephew to share a joke.
'Where the bee stings, there sting I!'
'The fellow will not sit for a week,' said Francis Jordan. He should not have courted the queen of the hive.
'Queen, uncle?'
'That shepherdess is young Honeydew!’
'Well-buzzed, I say!'
They watched the stage as fresh merriment arrived.
Cupid's Folly was always popular with the company but they found another reason to like it that afternoon. It healed their wounds. It blotted out the dark memory of The Merry Devils. It restored their shattered morale and put new zest into their playing. A glorious romp and an appreciative audience. Westfield's Men were wholly revived. Fear no longer lapped at the back of their minds. They were almost home and dry. Then came the final scene.
To end on a note of rural festivity, the playwright had contrived a dance around a huge maypole. Slotted into a hole in the middle of the stage, it looked as solid and upright as the mainmast of a ship. The countryfolk held a ribbon apiece and tripped around the pole to weave intricate patterns. Music drifted down from the gabled attic room where Peter Digby and his musicians were stationed. It was an engaging sight. Colour and movement entranced the spectators.
At the height of the dance, there was a sudden intrusion.
Rigormortis had been rejected by the three shepherdesses and driven away from the area. He now came sprinting back on to the village green with the panting Ursula on his tail. Fresh gales of laughter were produced by the elaborate chase sequence. Unable to outrun his pursuer, Rigormortis took refuge in the one place where she could not follow him-at the top of the pole. With great nimbleness, he shinned up the maypole and clung to it for dear life. Ursula pawed the ground below and yelled at him to come down.
Her command was obeyed instantly.
There was a loud crack and the pole split in two at a point only a few feet below the old man. Barnaby Gill lost his high eminence and dropped like a stone, landing heavily but rolling over immediately to get back to his feet. John Tallis gaped.
'Carry me out!' hissed Gill.
'What, master?'
'Over your shoulder, boy!'
Ursula did as she was told and bore Rigormortis offstage to a resounding cheer. The action had been so swift and continuous that it seemed like a rehearsed part of the play. When Barnaby Gill reappeared to take his bow with the company, he was given an ovation. His fall from the maypole had been as dramatic as it had been comic.
He bowed graciously and smiled expansively but Nicholas Bracewell was not deceived. Blood was seeping through the sleeve of Gill's costume and the man was clearly in pain. The maypole was hewn from old English oak and would never snap of its own accord. Nicholas decided that it had been sawn almost through by someone who concealed his handiwork beneath the coloured ribboning that swathed the pole. Rigormortis was meant to fall from the top. He could have been seriously injured.
Westfield's Men evidently had a dangerous enemy.
*
Margery Firethorn clucked solicitously over the patient like a mother hen.
'Dear, dear! There, there! How now, sir?'
'I believe I will recover,' said Gill wearily.
'Would you care for some wine?' she asked.
'No, thank you.'
'Some ale, then? Some other beverage of your choice?'
'I could touch nothing in my present state, Margery.'
'You suffer much in the cause of your profession, sir.'
'It is needful.'
'Is there pain still?'
'Sufficient.'
He winced and set off another round of maternal clucking.
Barnaby Gill was making the most of it. A surgeon had been called to dress the wound in his arm then he had been brought back to Firethorn's house because of its proximity to the theatre. Apart from the small gash which had produced the blood, he had sustained only a few bruises and abrasions. Reclining in, i chair, he had now got over the accident but he did not tell that to Margery Firethorn. He was enjoying far too much the chance to exploit her gushing sympathy.
'Did the surgeon give you physic, Barnaby?' she said. He prescribed rest, that is all.'
'Call on us, sir. Your needs will be provided.'
'I value that kindness.'
'Do not fear to ask for anything.'
'I will not, Margery.'
'If you wish to stay here, a bed can be found.'
'That will not be necessary, my angel,' said Firethorn, butting in on the conversation because he was no longer the centre of attention in his own house. 'It is only Barnaby's arm that is grazed, my dove. His legs are still sturdy enough to carry him back to his lodging. Besides, he has too much pride to impose on us.'
Gill shot him a hurt look. He was not so enamoured of Margery as to seek her hospitality for a few days but he relished the idea of sleeping under the same roof as the four apprentices and having the opportunity to play on
