out, then?’
‘Dozens of them, Hywel. My brother was one of them.’
‘Why did they discharge him?’
‘Less mouths to feed,’ said the boy.
Hywel’s companion was no more than twelve, a scrawny lad with a habit of glancing nervously over his shoulder as if expecting to be hit at any moment. The bruises on his face and bare arms suggested that his apprehension was well founded. His name was Ned Griddle, and he had been in Bridewell for almost three years. He and Hywel were unloading a cart in one of the courtyards, carrying heavy wooden boxes between them to the kitchens. The smell of fresh fish in one box was so strong and appetising that it brought an involuntary smile to Hywel’s face.
‘Not for the likes of us,’ warned Griddle. ‘They’d sooner see us starve.’
‘Who?’
‘Those that have taken over the place. Master Beechcroft is the worst of them.’
‘Why?’
‘He treats us like dirt.’
They left the box of fish in the kitchen and went back out into the courtyard. Hywel kept scanning the windows all around him, hoping for a glimpse of Dorothea. He was desperate to get in touch with her but did not even know where she was. They reached the cart and manoeuvred another box off it. Hywel glanced at the casks of wine.
‘What is all this food and drink for, Ned?’ he wondered.
‘Master Beechcroft and the others will have another feast.’
‘There is enough here to feed dozens of people.’
‘There always is.’
‘Who are the guests?’
‘Not you and me, Hywel.’
‘Will anyone in Bridewell be invited to the feast?’
‘Only if they are pretty enough’
‘What do you mean?’
Griddle was about to reply when he suddenly received one of the blows he had feared. A stocky man hit him across the back with a stick and ordered him to get on with his work. The boy was too frightened to speak after that, and Hywel was left to speculate on what he had meant by his remark about the feast. The Welshman was deeply alarmed. His resolve to get to Dorothea was stiffened.
Lawrence Firethorn had played the leading role so often that it was lodged forever in his mind. While others checked their lines or rehearsed their moves, he was able to relax before the performance, certain that the blank verse would spring to his lips when required. Firethorn’s memory was truly phenomenal. Since he knew well above two dozen plays by heart, he could offer a wide range of choice to spectators when he was on tour. His role in
Vincentio’s Revenge
was one that he could recall instantly. Nicholas Bracewell sought to add another to the actor-manager’s repertoire.
‘The tragedy is called
The Siege of Troy
,’ he explained.
Firethorn was blunt. ‘Is there a part worthy of me?’
‘Ulysses will be very much to your taste.’
‘Then why is he not in the title? Did Michael tell you that? Why did he not name his play
Ulysses and the Siege of Troy
? As you know, Nick,’ he said, adjusting his costume, ‘I have a fondness for title roles.’
‘You would enjoy this play if it had no title at all.’
‘It comes with your approval, then?’
‘It does,’ said Nicholas. ‘It has all the virtues of
Caesar’s Fall
and others unique to itself. Its only fault, if fault it be, is that it is at times too clever.’
‘Too clever?’
‘Aimed more at the trained scholar than the ordinary spectator. For instance, there are five or six hidden sonnets in the play. Most of our audience will hear them without even recognising what they are. They will be lost on the common herd.’
‘So is much that we play,’ said Firethorn. ‘As long as we have fights, arguments, deaths, dances, and comic antics, the vulgar souls in the yard will be satisfied. When the performance is over this afternoon, give me Michael’s tragedy. I’ll devote the whole evening to it.’
‘Your time will not be wasted.’
‘Thanks to you, Nick. Had the play been feeble, you’d not foist it upon me. That’s the reason I gave it
‘Dozens of them, Hywel. My brother was one of them.’
‘Why did they discharge him?’
‘Less mouths to feed,’ said the boy.
Hywel’s companion was no more than twelve, a scrawny lad with a habit of glancing nervously over his shoulder as if expecting to be hit at any moment. The bruises on his face and bare arms suggested that his apprehension was well founded. His name was Ned Griddle, and he had been in Bridewell for almost three years. He and Hywel were unloading a cart in one of the courtyards, carrying heavy wooden boxes between them to the kitchens. The smell of fresh fish in one box was so strong and appetising that it brought an involuntary smile to Hywel’s face.
‘Not for the likes of us,’ warned Griddle. ‘They’d sooner see us starve.’
‘Who?’
‘Those that have taken over the place. Master Beechcroft is the worst of them.’
‘Why?’
‘He treats us like dirt.’
They left the box of fish in the kitchen and went back out into the courtyard. Hywel kept scanning the windows all around him, hoping for a glimpse of Dorothea. He was desperate to get in touch with her but did not even know where she was. They reached the cart and manoeuvred another box off it. Hywel glanced at the casks of wine.
‘What is all this food and drink for, Ned?’ he wondered.
‘Master Beechcroft and the others will have another feast.’
‘There is enough here to feed dozens of people.’
‘There always is.’
‘Who are the guests?’
‘Not you and me, Hywel.’
‘Will anyone in Bridewell be invited to the feast?’
‘Only if they are pretty enough’
‘What do you mean?’
Griddle was about to reply when he suddenly received one of the blows he had feared. A stocky man hit him across the back with a stick and ordered him to get on with his work. The boy was too frightened to speak after that, and Hywel was left to speculate on what he had meant by his remark about the feast. The Welshman was deeply alarmed. His resolve to get to Dorothea was stiffened.
Lawrence Firethorn had played the leading role so often that it was lodged forever in his mind. While others checked their lines or rehearsed their moves, he was able to relax before the performance, certain that the blank verse would spring to his lips when required. Firethorn’s memory was truly phenomenal. Since he knew well above two dozen plays by heart, he could offer a wide range of choice to spectators when he was on tour. His role in
Vincentio’s Revenge
was one that he could recall instantly. Nicholas Bracewell sought to add another to the actor-manager’s repertoire.
‘The tragedy is called
The Siege of Troy
,’ he explained.
Firethorn was blunt. ‘Is there a part worthy of me?’
‘Ulysses will be very much to your taste.’
‘Then why is he not in the title? Did Michael tell you that? Why did he not name his play
Ulysses and the Siege of Troy
? As you know, Nick,’ he said, adjusting his costume, ‘I have a fondness for title roles.’
‘You would enjoy this play if it had no title at all.’
‘It comes with your approval, then?’
‘It does,’ said Nicholas. ‘It has all the virtues of
Caesar’s Fall
and others unique to itself. Its only fault, if fault it be, is that it is at times too clever.’
‘Too clever?’
‘Aimed more at the trained scholar than the ordinary spectator. For instance, there are five or six hidden sonnets in the play. Most of our audience will hear them without even recognising what they are. They will be lost on the common herd.’
‘So is much that we play,’ said Firethorn. ‘As long as we have fights, arguments, deaths, dances, and comic antics, the vulgar souls in the yard will be satisfied. When the performance is over this afternoon, give me Michael’s tragedy. I’ll devote the whole evening to it.’
‘Your time will not be wasted.’
‘Thanks to you, Nick. Had the play been feeble, you’d not foist it upon me. That’s the reason I gave it
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