and become an integral part of it. He had at least expected Firethorn to approve of that.
‘Are you in love, Edmund?’ growled the other.
‘In love?’ The question caught him off guard.
‘With a woman.’
‘I have been. Many times.’
‘Have you ever considered marriage?’
‘Often.’
‘Never do so again!’ warned Firethorn, using his hand like a grappling iron on the other’s wrist. ‘It’s a state of continual degradation for a man. The bridal bed is nothing but purgatory with pillows!’
Hoode understood. Margery had found him out.
‘What has your wife said, Lawrence?’
‘What has she not? She called me names that would burn the ears off a master mariner and issued threats that would daunt a regiment of soldiers.’ He brought both hands up to his face. ‘Dear God! It is like lying with a she-tiger!’
More wine helped Firethorn to recover from his wife’s accusations and molestations. The irony was that nothing had so far happened between him and Lady RosamundVarley apart from an exchange of glances during his performance on stage. The actor was being drawn and quartered for an offence that had not yet been committed but which, in view of Margery’s venomous attack, he would now advance to the earliest possible moment.
‘I will need you to write some verse for me, Edmund.’
‘Verse?’
‘A dozen lines or so. Perhaps a sonnet.’
‘To your wife?’ teased Hoode.
‘You may compose a funeral dirge for that harridan!’
Food was ordered. Firethorn was ready for the business of the day. His wife had been the cause of the scowling fury which he had brought into the room. Hoode was relieved. He decided to grasp the nettle boldly.
‘Have you read the play, Lawrence?’
‘Enough of it,’ grunted his companion.
‘Oh.’
‘A few scenes, sir. That was all I could stomach.’
‘You did not like it?’ asked Hoode tentatively.
‘I thought it the most damnable and detestable piece ever penned! Dull, stale and meandering without a touch of wit or poetry to redeem it. I tell you, Edmund, had there been a taper nearby, I’d have set fire to the thing!’
‘I felt it had some things to recommend it.’
‘They eluded me, sir. It is one thing to praise the victory over the Armada but you have to sail through the narrow straits of the Revels Office first. That play would founder on the rocks. It would never be allowed through.’
‘It was truly as bad as that?’ said the demoralised author.
‘What can you expect from a scribbler like Bartholomew?’
‘Bartholomew?’
‘Who but he would choose a title like An Enemy Routed ? That little rogue is the enemy, sir. The enemy of good theatre. He must be routed! I don’t know why Nicholas gave me his miserable play. It was an abomination in rhyming couplets!’
Edmund Hoode had been saved for the second time. Margery Firethorn and Roger Bartholomew had borne the brunt of an attack which he had thought was aimed at him. He did not wish to press his luck again. Patience was his strong suit. He waited until Firethorn had poured further bile upon the Oxford scholar.
The meal was served, they began to eat, then the verdict was at last pronounced. Firethorn held up his fork like a sceptre and beamed with royal condescension.
‘It’s magnificent, Edmund!’
‘You think so?’ stuttered Hoode.
‘Your best work without a shadow of a doubt.’
‘That is very heartening, Lawrence.’
‘The action drives on, the poetry soars, the love scenes are divinely pretty. If Nicholas can devise a way to bring those ships on and off the stage, we will be the talk of London!’
They fell to discussing the finer points of the drama and an hour sneaked past without their noticing its departure. Firethorn suggested a few alterations but they were so minor that Hoode was glad to agree to them. Long days and even longer nights had gone into the creation of Gloriana Triumphant but the comments it was now receiving made all the suffering worth
‘Are you in love, Edmund?’ growled the other.
‘In love?’ The question caught him off guard.
‘With a woman.’
‘I have been. Many times.’
‘Have you ever considered marriage?’
‘Often.’
‘Never do so again!’ warned Firethorn, using his hand like a grappling iron on the other’s wrist. ‘It’s a state of continual degradation for a man. The bridal bed is nothing but purgatory with pillows!’
Hoode understood. Margery had found him out.
‘What has your wife said, Lawrence?’
‘What has she not? She called me names that would burn the ears off a master mariner and issued threats that would daunt a regiment of soldiers.’ He brought both hands up to his face. ‘Dear God! It is like lying with a she-tiger!’
More wine helped Firethorn to recover from his wife’s accusations and molestations. The irony was that nothing had so far happened between him and Lady RosamundVarley apart from an exchange of glances during his performance on stage. The actor was being drawn and quartered for an offence that had not yet been committed but which, in view of Margery’s venomous attack, he would now advance to the earliest possible moment.
‘I will need you to write some verse for me, Edmund.’
‘Verse?’
‘A dozen lines or so. Perhaps a sonnet.’
‘To your wife?’ teased Hoode.
‘You may compose a funeral dirge for that harridan!’
Food was ordered. Firethorn was ready for the business of the day. His wife had been the cause of the scowling fury which he had brought into the room. Hoode was relieved. He decided to grasp the nettle boldly.
‘Have you read the play, Lawrence?’
‘Enough of it,’ grunted his companion.
‘Oh.’
‘A few scenes, sir. That was all I could stomach.’
‘You did not like it?’ asked Hoode tentatively.
‘I thought it the most damnable and detestable piece ever penned! Dull, stale and meandering without a touch of wit or poetry to redeem it. I tell you, Edmund, had there been a taper nearby, I’d have set fire to the thing!’
‘I felt it had some things to recommend it.’
‘They eluded me, sir. It is one thing to praise the victory over the Armada but you have to sail through the narrow straits of the Revels Office first. That play would founder on the rocks. It would never be allowed through.’
‘It was truly as bad as that?’ said the demoralised author.
‘What can you expect from a scribbler like Bartholomew?’
‘Bartholomew?’
‘Who but he would choose a title like An Enemy Routed ? That little rogue is the enemy, sir. The enemy of good theatre. He must be routed! I don’t know why Nicholas gave me his miserable play. It was an abomination in rhyming couplets!’
Edmund Hoode had been saved for the second time. Margery Firethorn and Roger Bartholomew had borne the brunt of an attack which he had thought was aimed at him. He did not wish to press his luck again. Patience was his strong suit. He waited until Firethorn had poured further bile upon the Oxford scholar.
The meal was served, they began to eat, then the verdict was at last pronounced. Firethorn held up his fork like a sceptre and beamed with royal condescension.
‘It’s magnificent, Edmund!’
‘You think so?’ stuttered Hoode.
‘Your best work without a shadow of a doubt.’
‘That is very heartening, Lawrence.’
‘The action drives on, the poetry soars, the love scenes are divinely pretty. If Nicholas can devise a way to bring those ships on and off the stage, we will be the talk of London!’
They fell to discussing the finer points of the drama and an hour sneaked past without their noticing its departure. Firethorn suggested a few alterations but they were so minor that Hoode was glad to agree to them. Long days and even longer nights had gone into the creation of Gloriana Triumphant but the comments it was now receiving made all the suffering worth
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