The Vagabond Clown (26 page)

Behind the scenes, Nicholas took on a role more usually assigned to Firethorn, that of instilling confidence and spirit into the company. While the actor-manager did it with a hortatory speech, declaimed with characteristic zest, the book holder preferred to move quietly from one person to another so that he could speak individually to them. By the time that Nicholas had finished, everyone knew what was expected of him. The musicians took up their places in the gallery and James Ingram was poised to stride out on stage to deliver the Prologue. The customary buzz of anticipation could be heard from the audience. They were there to enjoy themselves and Westfield’s Men were determined not to let them down. Certain that everybody was ready, Nicholas gave the signal. The musicians began to play.

Almost immediately, a lute string snapped with a resounding twang, catching the lutenist on the arm and producing an involuntary yell of surprise. It gained the first unintended laugh. When Ingram swept on stage to deliver the Prologue, his black cloak caught on the edge of the scenery and was badly torn. More laughter followed. It was an inauspicious start but the actors were not distracted. Once the play began, they imposed a degree of control over it that never really slipped. At the same time, however, they failed to inject any of the fire and hilarity that had
marked earlier performances of the play. Gill was strangely subdued and it was only Nicholas’s frenetic manipulation of the wheelbarrow that produced any sustained mirth. The apprentices were little more than adequate as the female quartet and Rowland Carr, playing a disreputable hedge-priest, was less than reliable. It was not for want of effort. Everybody committed himself wholeheartedly to the enterprise but that soon became a fault. By trying too hard, they fell short of their high standards. They speeded up the action to an almost bewildering pace, their timing was awry and they lost all the subtleties of the play.

It was Owen Elias who lent the piece its real quality. In the leading role of Lackwit, he was so outstanding that they hardly missed Firethorn. The Welshman seized his opportunity to dazzle like a man who had been waiting a whole lifetime for such a moment. He was both hero and clown, winning the sympathy of the spectators yet earning most of the laughter as well. Elias had always been a fine actor with a commanding presence and a powerful voice but nobody had expected him to blossom in the part of Lackwit. Much to Gill’s disgust, Bedlam was overshadowed and it spurred the clown on to desperate measures. He inserted comic songs that were not even in the play and made such use of his facial contortions that he appeared to be having some kind of fit. None of it challenged Elias’s supremacy. It was he who rescued the play from the mediocrity into which it would otherwise have sunk.

Fortunately, the majority of the audience was unaware of the glaring defects in the performance. Unused to seeing
plays on a regular basis, they were not unduly critical and enjoyed every moment. Even with its blemishes,
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
was superior to anything that Conway’s Men, or any other touring company, had offered to the people of Dover and they were highly appreciative. The actors, however, knew only too well how much better the play could have been. During the long and generous applause, they took their bow with a measure of guilt, feeling that they did not entirely deserve it. Elias was again the exception. Having carried much of the play on his broad shoulders, he felt entitled to bask in the ovation and he made the most of it. When he led the cast into the tiring-house, he was congratulated by all and sundry. Even Gill had a word of praise for him.

Nicholas was deeply disappointed. In times of adversity, Westfield’s Men could be usually be counted on to pull together but it had not happened that afternoon. What had worked so well in rehearsal that morning had faltered during the actual performance. Even experienced actors like Gill, Ingram, Carr and Frank Quilter had signally failed to do themselves justice. Something positive had been achieved. In defiance of the attempt to prevent them from playing at all, they had actually staged the comedy in front of a full audience. Money had been earned and spectators went away happy. But it was not enough to satisfy Nicholas. He was forced to accept the fact that, without Firethorn, the company was not in a fit state to defend their high reputation. Their patron, an assiduous theatregoer, would have been shocked to see how disorganised they
had become. He would certainly not allow his company to perform at the castle in front of Lord Cobham.

Suppressing his own anxieties, Nicholas did his best to give encouragement to the others but it was in vain. They were sad and jaded. The performance had exposed their limitations and reminded them just how much they depended on Firethorn. All that they wanted to do – apart from Elias, that is – was to creep back to the Lion and reach for the consolation of strong ale. Gill crooked a finger to call Nicholas over to him.

‘That was an abomination,’ said the clown.

‘It was lacking in some respects,’ admitted Nicholas.

‘Thank heaven that Lord Westfield was not here to witness it.’

‘I, too, am grateful for that small mercy.’

‘Spare us from further disgrace, Nicholas.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Inform our patron that we are unable to perform at the castle. I’ll not be humiliated like that again. Until we find Lawrence, we are but pale shadows of what we should be. Look around you,’ said Gill. ‘There’s hardly a man among us who would dare to take to the boards again. Explain the situation to Lord Westfield. Tell him that we’ve given our last performance in Dover.’

It took a long time for the crowd to disperse from the Guildhall. Several of the spectators remained in order to add their personal congratulations to the actors as they came out from the tiring-house. Owen Elias was the first to
appear, surrounded immediately by adoring young women who quickly discovered that he was nothing like the timid and unworldly Lackwit that he had played. Barnaby Gill was wheeled out by George Dart to a smattering of applause and there was great interest as well in Richard Honeydew, whose portrayal of the heroine had been so convincing that some refused to believe that he was really a young boy. Under the supervision of Nicholas, the hired men began to dismantle the stage. Sebastian Frant and Thomasina came across to the book holder.

‘Do you have a moment to spare, Nick?’ asked Frant.

‘I always have time for your and your daughter,’ replied Nicholas, leaving the others to get on with their work. ‘It is good to see you both again. I wish that we could have offered you something better than was on display this afternoon.’

‘But we enjoyed the play,’ said Thomasina with obvious sincerity. ‘It was a more cunning and amusing tale than
Cupid’s Folly
. Master Gill was a delight and you proved yourself a very able actor.’

‘Yes,’ said Frant. ‘I’ve never seen you on stage before.’

Nicholas gave a tired smile. ‘Nor will you do so again, Sebastian. I was there merely to move the wheelbarrow. I’m not proud of my performance.’

‘You should be, Nick.’

‘I agree with Father,’ said Thomasina. ‘You were another clown. But where was Master Firethorn? I thought that you told me he was certain to appear today?’

‘He was indisposed, I fear,’ said Nicholas.

Her eyes filled with concern. ‘I hope that he is not ill.’

‘His condition is not serious and we expect him to return soon. Fortunately,’ he went on, pointing to Elias, ‘we had an able deputy in Owen. He was a true hero on that stage this afternoon.’

‘Oh, I know. Pray excuse me while I tell him so.’

Seeing that Elias was breaking away from a group of admirers, Thomasina went over to speak to him. The Welshman was soon lapping up her congratulations. It gave Nicholas the opportunity of a word alone with someone who knew much more about the theatre than his impressionable young daughter.

‘Be honest, Sebastian,’ said Nicholas. ‘What did you really think of us?’

Frant was tactful. ‘You’ve given me more entertaining performances.’

‘I asked for an
honest
opinion.’

‘Then I have to confess that I was disappointed. Thomasina might not have seen the faults but I lost count of them. Barnaby was curiously weak and Edmund was simply walking through his part. Owen Elias,’ he said, nodding towards the Welshman, ‘was the only person to bring true worth out of his role. You missed Lawrence sorely.’

‘We were all aware of that.’

‘Will he be back in time for your appearance at the castle?’

‘It seems unlikely,’ said Nicholas. ‘That being the case, we will have to forego the pleasure of playing here again. Barnaby refuses to countenance the idea and most of our
fellows will be of the same mind. Owen apart, they would like to quit Dover at the earliest opportunity.’

‘Are they so upset by their performance?’

‘They are mortified, Sebastian, and so am I. You’ve seen us at the Queen’s Head. You know what Westfield’s Men can do at their best.’

‘No rival can even challenge them.’

‘We did not feel quite so invincible today.’

Frant was sympathetic. ‘Take heart from the fact that you had more spectators here like Thomasina. They loved what they saw and gave you the tribute of their palms.’ His daughter rejoined him. ‘We must away, my dear. And we must let Nick get on with his work.’ He shook hands with Nicholas. ‘Give my warmest regards to Lawrence. I hope that he is soon able to take his place on stage again.’

‘Yes,’ said Thomasina. ‘I long to see him once more.’

‘It may not be in Dover,’ said Nicholas. ‘Farewell.’

As he watched Frant and his daughter leaving the hall, Nicholas had his worst fears confirmed. Their former scrivener had been candid. By their normal standards, the performance was extremely poor. Nicholas felt that they had cheated the audience and yearned for the chance to make amends. That chance would not come in Dover unless Firethorn was found and restored to his pre-eminence in the company. It was a sobering reminder. His main task was to continue the search. After instructing the others to load everything into the waiting wagons, Nicholas slipped out of the Guildhall. He did not walk far before someone stepped out to block his way. It was John Strood.

‘I was hoping to see you, Nick,’ he said, pumping his friend’s hand. ‘You told me that you were the book holder. I did not realise that you were an actor as well.’

‘Only by necessity, John.’

‘It was the wittiest play I’ve ever seen.’

‘I’m glad that you enjoyed it.’

‘It was such a clever idea to use a wheelbarrow as you did.’

‘That, too, was forced upon us,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was good of you to come.’

‘It was the only time that I could.’

‘Why? Are you setting sail?’

‘Later this evening.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘Several days,’ said Strood. ‘You’ll doubtless have moved on from the town by then. I’m sorry that we were not able to spend more time together.’ He shifted his feet uneasily. ‘And I’m sorry that you did not find me in a happier station.’

‘I was delighted to see you, John, whatever your station in life.’

‘The
Mermaid
is an unworthy ship for someone of my abilities.’

‘Then find a better one.’

‘That is not as simple as you might imagine.’

‘Why not?’

‘One day, perhaps, I’ll tell you.’ He embraced Nicholas. ‘Adieu!’

‘Good fortune attend you, John!’

Strood gave a mirthless laugh and hurried away.
Nicholas was pleased that they had been able to exchange a farewell but saddened by the fact that they were unlikely to meet again. His friend deserved to sail on a much finer vessel than the
Mermaid
yet there was an air of resignation about Strood that suggested he would never do so. Nicholas waited until his old shipmate had vanished into the crowd before he set off in the other direction. His thoughts were solely on Lawrence Firethorn now.

The blind beggar was sitting in the precise spot that George Dart had indicated. White-haired and dressed in rags, the old man was curled up in a doorway to keep out of the sun. A small bowl stood on the cobbles in front of him but it was empty. Nicholas tossed a coin into the bowl and a scrawny hand shot out to retrieve it.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ said the beggar.

‘How do you know that I’m a man and not a maid?’

‘By the sound of your feet. You’ve the tread of a tall man with a long stride.’

Nicholas crouched down beside him. ‘How good is your memory?’

‘As good as yours, I think. Try me, sir.’

‘A friend of mine spoke to you yesterday, shortly after noon.’

‘A young man. I remember him well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped a coin in my bowl. Few people do that.’

‘He also talked to you,’ said Nicholas. ‘He told you who
he was and where he worked. When he confided a problem to you, you claimed that you could help.’

‘I did,’ agreed the beggar, ‘but he went away before I could tell him what I knew. He was with another man, older and more irritable, who seemed to be in a small cart.’

‘It was a wheelbarrow.’

The beggar cackled. ‘Does he have no better means of moving about?’

‘His leg is broken and in a splint.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘then he has my sympathy. He has a burden to carry, like me, and must try to overcome it as best he can.’ He reached out a hand to feel Nicholas’s arm. ‘Who am I talking to?’

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘Also employed by Westfield’s Men, I think.’

‘The same.’

‘Then you, too, are looking for a certain Master Firethorn.’

‘We are desperate to find him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anything of help that you can tell me will earn my gratitude.’

‘I need more than gratitude.’ Another coin was dropped into the bowl. The beggar grabbed it at once. ‘Is this all that I can expect?’

‘That depends on the intelligence you give me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Since you were unable to see anything, you must have heard it instead.’

‘Oh, yes. My ears can pick up the slightest sound. I hear snatches of a thousand conversations every day yet I can
always tell them apart. Age has robbed me of much but left me with my wits.’