rural anonymity. The playhouse was his true home. Like Will Fowler, he would never be happy away from it. Nicholas resolved to talk further with Firethorn.
The leading actor himself was in an affable mood, smiling upon all and sundry as he strode back into the tiring-house each time with applause at his heels. Before his next entrance, he would study himself carefully in a mirror and stroke his beard, fondle his locks or make slight adjustments to his hat and garments. It was not only the success of the play that was pleasing him, nor even the fact that Lord Westfield himself was there to witness it. Something else was putting that swagger into his walk. Barnaby Gill identified what it was.
‘In the middle of the lower gallery,’ he hissed.
‘I thought so,’ said Nicholas, flicking over a page of his prompt book. ‘I recognised the signs.’
‘He’s directing every line at her.’
‘Is he getting any response?’
‘Response!’ echoed Gill with spiteful relish. ‘She keeps lowering her mask and favouring him with such ardent glances that he is almost smouldering. Mark my words, Nicholas, she knows how to tickle his epididymis.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Prepare yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Lady Rosamund Varley.’
‘Oh!’
Nicholas waved some of the actors into position to make their entrance. He did not dare to reflect on what he had just been told. A possible liaison between Lawrence Firethorn and Lady Rosamund Varley was far too disturbing to consider. He kept his mind on the job in hand and warned the lutenist to make himself ready. Gill’s tone remained malicious.
‘Love and fortune indeed!’
‘Don’t forget your costume change.’
‘It’s lust and misfortune!’
‘Ben!’ called Nicholas. ‘Stand by.’
‘Aye,’ came the gruff reply from a thickset actor.
‘His wife should geld him,’ decided Gill. ‘It’s the only way to tame a stallion like that. Margery should geld him – with her teeth.’
Benjamin Creech went past with a tray of goblets. ‘Remember to offer the first to Lorenzo,’ said Nicholas.
‘Aye.’
‘Don’t drink any yourself,’ teased Gill wickedly.
‘No,’ grunted Creech.
When his cue came, he straightened his back and made his entrance. Nicholas turned over another page. Barnaby Gill rid himself of some more bilious comments then let his gaze wander until it settled on one of the apprentices. Richard Honeydew was standing in profile as he shook out his petticoats. His face was small and beautifully shapedwith a youthful bloom on it that made his skin look like silk. Barnaby Gill watched him in wonderment.
‘Lawrence is such a fool!’ he murmured. ‘Why bother with women when you can have the real thing?’
The afternoon had been a resounding success for Lawrence Firethorn. He had held a full audience spellbound, he had delighted his patron, and he had fallen in love. It was an intoxicating experience. He was so carried away that he even paid Marwood the rent that was outstanding. Spared the horrors of Spanish occupation, and now showered with money he never expected to get, the landlord almost contrived a smile. Firethorn slapped him on the back and sent him off. His next task was to take Samuel Ruff aside to put a proposition to him. The player was duly impressed.
‘I take that as a great compliment.’
‘Then you accept?’
‘I fear not. My way lies towards a farm in Norwich.’
‘A farm !’ He invested the word with utter disgust.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Buy why, man?’
‘Because I’m minded to leave the profession altogether.’
‘Actors do not leave,’ announced Firethorn grandly. ‘They act on to the very end of their days.’
‘Not me,’ said Ruff solemnly.
‘Would you rather chase sheep in Norwich?’
‘Cows. My brother has a dairy farm.’
‘We must save you from that at all costs, dear fellow.You’ll be up to your waist in cow turds and surrounded by flies. That’s no fit way for an actor to see out his full
The leading actor himself was in an affable mood, smiling upon all and sundry as he strode back into the tiring-house each time with applause at his heels. Before his next entrance, he would study himself carefully in a mirror and stroke his beard, fondle his locks or make slight adjustments to his hat and garments. It was not only the success of the play that was pleasing him, nor even the fact that Lord Westfield himself was there to witness it. Something else was putting that swagger into his walk. Barnaby Gill identified what it was.
‘In the middle of the lower gallery,’ he hissed.
‘I thought so,’ said Nicholas, flicking over a page of his prompt book. ‘I recognised the signs.’
‘He’s directing every line at her.’
‘Is he getting any response?’
‘Response!’ echoed Gill with spiteful relish. ‘She keeps lowering her mask and favouring him with such ardent glances that he is almost smouldering. Mark my words, Nicholas, she knows how to tickle his epididymis.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Prepare yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Lady Rosamund Varley.’
‘Oh!’
Nicholas waved some of the actors into position to make their entrance. He did not dare to reflect on what he had just been told. A possible liaison between Lawrence Firethorn and Lady Rosamund Varley was far too disturbing to consider. He kept his mind on the job in hand and warned the lutenist to make himself ready. Gill’s tone remained malicious.
‘Love and fortune indeed!’
‘Don’t forget your costume change.’
‘It’s lust and misfortune!’
‘Ben!’ called Nicholas. ‘Stand by.’
‘Aye,’ came the gruff reply from a thickset actor.
‘His wife should geld him,’ decided Gill. ‘It’s the only way to tame a stallion like that. Margery should geld him – with her teeth.’
Benjamin Creech went past with a tray of goblets. ‘Remember to offer the first to Lorenzo,’ said Nicholas.
‘Aye.’
‘Don’t drink any yourself,’ teased Gill wickedly.
‘No,’ grunted Creech.
When his cue came, he straightened his back and made his entrance. Nicholas turned over another page. Barnaby Gill rid himself of some more bilious comments then let his gaze wander until it settled on one of the apprentices. Richard Honeydew was standing in profile as he shook out his petticoats. His face was small and beautifully shapedwith a youthful bloom on it that made his skin look like silk. Barnaby Gill watched him in wonderment.
‘Lawrence is such a fool!’ he murmured. ‘Why bother with women when you can have the real thing?’
The afternoon had been a resounding success for Lawrence Firethorn. He had held a full audience spellbound, he had delighted his patron, and he had fallen in love. It was an intoxicating experience. He was so carried away that he even paid Marwood the rent that was outstanding. Spared the horrors of Spanish occupation, and now showered with money he never expected to get, the landlord almost contrived a smile. Firethorn slapped him on the back and sent him off. His next task was to take Samuel Ruff aside to put a proposition to him. The player was duly impressed.
‘I take that as a great compliment.’
‘Then you accept?’
‘I fear not. My way lies towards a farm in Norwich.’
‘A farm !’ He invested the word with utter disgust.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Buy why, man?’
‘Because I’m minded to leave the profession altogether.’
‘Actors do not leave,’ announced Firethorn grandly. ‘They act on to the very end of their days.’
‘Not me,’ said Ruff solemnly.
‘Would you rather chase sheep in Norwich?’
‘Cows. My brother has a dairy farm.’
‘We must save you from that at all costs, dear fellow.You’ll be up to your waist in cow turds and surrounded by flies. That’s no fit way for an actor to see out his full
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