The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Read Free Page A

by wavy black hair set off by an exquisitely pointed beard. There was a true nobilityin his bearing which belied the fact that he was the son of a village blacksmith.
    ‘Where have you been, Nick?’ he enquired.
    ‘Talking with Master Bartholomew.’
    ‘That scurvy knave!’
    ‘It is his play,’ reminded Nicholas.
    ‘He’s an unmannerly rogue!’ insisted the actor. ‘I could run him through as soon as look at him.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Why? Why , sir? Because that dog had the gall to scowl at me throughout the entire rehearsal. I’ll not put up with it, Nick. I’ll not permit scowls and frowns and black looks at my performance. Keep him away from me.’
    ‘He sends his apologies,’ said Nicholas tactfully.
    ‘Hang him!’
    Firethorn’s rage was diverted by a sudden peal of bells from a neighbouring church. Since there were well over a hundred churches in the capital, there always seemed to be bells tolling somewhere and it was a constant menace to open air performance. The high galleries of the inn yard could muffle the pandemonium outside in Gracechurch Street but it could not keep out the chimes from an adjacent belfry. Firethorn thrust his sword arm up towards heaven.
    ‘Give me a blade strong enough,’ he declared, ‘and I’ll hack through every bell-rope in London!’
    Struck by the absurdity of his own posture, he burst into laughter and Nicholas grinned. Working for Lawrence Firethorn could be an ordeal at times but there was an amiable warmth about him that excused many of his faults.During their association, Nicholas had developed a cautious affection for him. The actor turned to practicalities and cocked an eye upwards.
    ‘Well, Nick?’
    ‘We might be lucky and we might not.’
    ‘Be more exact,’ pressed Firethorn. ‘You’re our seaman. You know how to read the sky. What does it tell you?’
    Nicholas looked up at the rectangle of blue and grey above the thatched roof of the galleries. A bright May morning had given way to an uncertain afternoon. The wind had freshened and clouds were scudding across the sky. Fine weather was a vital factor in the performance as Firethorn knew to his cost.
    ‘I have played in torrents of rain,’ he announced, ‘and I would willingly fight the Battle of Acre in a snowstorm this afternoon. I care not about myself, but about our patrons. And about our costumes.’
    Nicholas nodded. The inn yard was not paved. Heavy rain would mire the ground and cause all kinds of problems. He was as anxious to give good news as Firethorn was to receive it. After studying the sky for a couple of minutes, he made his prediction.
    ‘It will stay dry until we are finished.’
    ‘By all, that’s wonderful!’ exclaimed the actor, slapping his thigh. ‘I knew I chose the right man as book holder!’

    The Tragical History of Richard the Lionheart was a moderate success. Playbills advertising the performance had been put up everywhere by the stagekeepers and theybrought a large and excitable audience flocking to The Queen’s Head. Gatherers on duty at the main gates charged a penny for admission. Many people jostled for standing room around the stage itself but the bulk of the audience paid a further penny or twopence to gain access to the galleries, which ran around the yard at three levels and turned it into a natural amphitheatre. The galleries offered greater comfort, a better view and protection against the elements. Private rooms at the rear were available for rest, recreation or impromptu assignations.
    All sorts and conditions of men flooded in – lawyers, clerks, tinkers, tailors, yeomen, soldiers, sailors, carriers, apprentices, merchants, butchers, bakers, chapmen, silk-weavers, students from the Inns of Court, aspiring authors, unemployed actors, gaping countrymen, foreign visitors, playhouse gallants, old, young, lords and commoners. Thieves, cutpurses and confidence tricksters mingled with the crowd to ply their trade.
    Ladies, wives, mistresses and young girls