The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Read Free

others but it was somehow held together by its patriotic impulse.
    London was hungry for new plays and the companies were always in search of them. Lawrence Firethorn had accepted the apprentice work because it offered him a superb central role that he could tailor to suit his unique talents. It might be a play that smouldered without ever bursting into flame but it could still entertain an audience for a couple of hours and it would not disgrace the growing reputation of Lord Westfield’s Men.
    ‘I expected so much more,’ confided the author as the drink turned his fury into wistfulness. ‘I had hopes, Nicholas.’
    ‘They’ll not be dashed.’
    ‘I felt so betrayed as I sat there this morning.’
    ‘Rehearsals often deceive.’
    ‘Where is my play?’
    It was a cry from the heart and Nicholas was touched. Like others before him, Roger Bartholomew was learning the awful truth that an author did not occupy the exalted position that he imagined. Lord Westfield’s Men, in fact, consigned him to a fairly humble station. The young Oxford scholar had been paid five pounds for his play andhe had seen King Richard make his first entrance in a cloak that cost ten times that amount. It was galling.
    Nicholas softened the blow with kind words as best he could, but there was something that could not be concealed from the wilting author. Lawrence Firethorn never regarded a play as an expression of poetic genius. He viewed it merely as a scaffold on which he could shout and strut and dazzle his public. It was his conviction that an audience came solely to see him act and not to watch an author write.
    ‘What am I to do, Nicholas?’ pleaded Bartholomew.
    ‘Bear with us.’
    ‘I’ll be mocked by everyone.’
    ‘Have faith.’
    After giving what reassurance he could, the book holder left him staring into the remains of his sack and wishing that he had never left the University. They had taken him seriously there. The groves of academe had nurtured a tender plant which could not survive in the scorching heat of the playhouse.
    Nicholas, meanwhile, hurried back to the yard where the preparations continued apace. The stage was a rectangle of trestles that jutted out into the middle of the yard from one wall. Green rushes, mixed with aromatic herbs, had been strewn over the stage to do battle with the stink of horse dung from the nearby stables. When the audience pressed around the acting area, there would be the competing smells of bad breath, beer, tobacco, garlic, mould, tallow and stale sweat to keep at bay. Nicholasobserved that servingmen were perfuming large ewers in the shadows so that spectators would have somewhere to relieve themselves during the performance.
    As soon as he appeared, everyone converged on him for advice or instruction – Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, Hugh Wegges, the tireman, Will Fowler, one of the players, John Tallis, an apprentice, Matthew Lipton, the scrivener, and the distraught Peter Digby, leader of the musicians, who was still mortified that he had sent Richard the Lionheart to his grave with the wrong funeral march. Questions, complaints and requests bombarded the book holder but he coped with them all.
    A tall, broad-shouldered man with long fair hair and a full beard, Nicholas Bracewell remained even-tempered as the stress began to tell on his colleagues. He asserted himself without having to raise his voice and his soft West Country accent was a balm to their ears. Ruffled feathers were smoothed, difficulties soon resolved. Then a familiar sound boomed out.
    ‘Nick, dear heart! Come to me.’
    Lawrence Firethorn had made a typically dramatic entrance before moving to his accustomed position at the centre of the stage. After almost three years with the company, Nicholas could still be taken aback by him. Firethorn had tremendous presence. A sturdy, barrel-chested man of medium height, he somehow grew in stature when he trod the boards. The face had a flashy handsomeness that was framed